Casefile: Matters of Some Importance
by inukshuk
Summary: Under duress, Sherlock has to find rare wine for his brother- before the deadline runs out. John juggles assisting Sherlock, Lestrade and a desperate soldier from his past. John POV.
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

X x xxx xxx xxx x

PREAMBLE …

1998 Petrus Pomerol - $1,459+ USD per 750 ml bottle

This Merlot was one of the favorite wines at the White House during the Kennedy years. The official name is Chateau Petrus but even its label refers to it as simply "Petrus." A truly exquisite vintage, it should reach maturity after the year 2012.

X x xxx xxx xxx x

I stand at the open door and sigh. The fridge is largely empty. There is a half bottle of red wine, moldy left over Chinese take-away, jam with overly sticky outsides and three empty jars of formaldehyde. I rearrange the take-away and retabulate. There's also milk that's gone off and – correction - four jars of formaldehyde. The last one contains a single eyeball. There isn't even milk for tea. There is bread, however. Almost a complete loaf. And it's fresh. Perhaps a contribution from Mrs Hudson trying to keep us distracted bachelors alive? The state of the fridge is a microcosm of the state of affairs at 221B.

Turning my back on the kitchen, I take a reading on the weather. The rain is chucking down without end; the winds blasting it around in all directions including horizontal and updrafted vertical. The thin ridge of the road camber road is all that remains above water level. I look up at the low ceiling. It is almost nonexistent; this sky starts at the rooftops. There is no visibility. Nothing is going to be flying today. It doesn't really matter since I am not likely to be airborne. Not here. Not now. I used to, however. A great deal, and that makes assessing the weather a hard to break habit. Even now, knowing flight conditions is rooted in basic survival.

I continue against logic and search for some hope in the skyline. I had hoped my visual would be a contradiction for the television where every channel news reader related a version of a perky call for another day of 'brolly weather'. An umbrella will be useless in that – inside out in seconds and not much of a shelter from the rain from the shoulders down in that wind.

I watch the rain for a while, hypnotized by the visual white noise. There's something to it, I think, to watch the relentlessness of the downpour. There is no easing up – only surges in effort – like inconsolable sobbing. I work my way round to the last important idea and that is I have to go out in it this morning. No amount of gear is going to withstand the storm. Getting drenched is only a matter of time. We – among other things - have no food. Another high point is a visit to the bank. The business account is decidedly low on funds; I need to know by how much. It's not that he can't do his finances; I just made the fatal mistake of doing it once and that was enough to permanently inherit the job. If these errands are to be, it is up to me. The thought that Sherlock might go in my stead does not even enter my mind.

Eventually, I resign myself to my fate and leave. Long experience makes me right about the gear. I am drenched not a half a block from home and by the time I get back, I am well soaked through and enough so that a complete change of clothes is the first order of business. Once restored, I sort out contents of various bags – fresh food in the refrigerator, tins and crackers in the pantry, new business cards, a new notebook and three bank receipts on the desk. I am not the least bit happy about the receipts since they show only the thinnest of margins on the plus side. It's as close to zero as I have ever seen it. There's work in it for me – I must insist that Sherlock be less picky; Mrs Hudson is benevolent but she is a business woman, after all. The ability to buy food would also be nice. Besides, we don't need for every case to be worthy of his towering bloody intellect. We need them to be billable hours so we can eat and have a place to stay out of the blessed rain and cold. Next, the newspapers go on the table. I undo another phone charger and start charging my phone and wonder again what he did with the last one. This is charger number four. Perhaps it is better I not know.

Satisfied with my re-established indoors status, I further that cozy feeling by putting the kettle on. A morning running about in the freezing rain and I am starved. While I wait for the boil, I make toast and tuck into a well-buttered and jammed slice.

"Is that tea?"

I turn, mouth full and in half chew. Sherlock stands at the door way, half asleep, half dressed, shoeless and the tie to his dressing gown trailing and nearly lost.

I stuff down the mouthful of toast and say, "Not yet."

"Is that toast?"

"Not for long."

He descends into a scowl. He seems to have arrived at a mental impasse about what to do next. I take another bite of toast. It's possible I might be able to wait him out. He turns to go, changes his mind and comes back abruptly.

"Why didn't you wear boots?"

How did he know about the boots? It doesn't matter. This is revenge for the tea not being ready. Or not offering to make him toast. In any event, I refuse to indulge him by making any outward signs that I am trying to establish what he might have used as the tell-tale clues. I want to hold my hands out in front of me and take a look down my front but I don't. It has been raining for days – even at a guess, he has a fifty-fifty chance. Boots or shoes. I conclude by believing that he just got lucky. I take an aggressive bite of toast and don't dignify him with an answer.

Downstairs, I can hear Mrs Hudson greet a visitor and I take care of the kettle that is at full screech. By the time I finish with the teapot, there is a knock at the door. Sherlock is frozen in place – waiting for the tea to steep.

"I'll get that, shall I?" I offer. There is no indication that he has caught the sarcasm. I carry on. "And if it's a client, you better accept. The account has exactly enough money left for two pints of beer and a plate of chips." He doesn't acknowledge me and before I get to the door, it opens and in walks Mycroft. We square off and consider each other at a distance.

"Come in." I say. He is carrying a walking stick not an umbrella and yet he is completely dry. Someone must have held one for him from the car to the front door. Still – in the torrents – that might have taken some doing. Maybe the rain does not dare to fall on him. Perhaps he has immunity. I would not put either past him.

He takes a measured step forward, stops, anchors his walking stick just so then tilts his head and says with some derision, "Doctor Watson, why didn't you wear your boots?"

"Oh, come on." I say. "Not you, too."

"You must be careful of the elements, Doctor. You might catch cold."

"Stop it. Both of you."

"For God's sakes, John. Haven't you worked it out yet?" Sherlock pads over to me and waits. When I give no response, he says, "Black shoes!" As if that means something to me.

"What?"

"You're wearing black shoes." He points to my feet as if this were enough to fill in the entire story and he needs only repeat it to get me to understand. "You almost invariably wear brown shoes. They are suitably dull and inconsequential as a colour and match most of your wardrobe that tends towards a khaki aesthetic. You only wear black shoes for formal occasions only and when I say formal – I do mean that loosely. The pants you are wearing are tan. Brown would look better – and we have already established that is your preference. Yet here you are in your dress up blacks. So what happened? The place is littered with newspapers, business cards, food. So you went out. This is day four of a deluge. You would be soaked in mere minutes. Stands to reason then, that you are wearing black shoes because your brown ones are wet because you failed to wear boots when you went out. Mycroft is right. You can catch a dreadful cold if you are not careful. Now tell me the tea is ready. I'm positively parched."

"None for me, thanks." Mycroft adds, holding up a polite hand to refuse. "I won't be staying."

The sound of his brother's voice brings him back to the current circumstances. "You still here? What do **you** want?"

"The annual dinner at Pavel's is in three weeks. There has been a tragic loss of Petrus. The meal will be indigestible without it. You must find me a dozen bottles."

"Oh." I say, "Red wine? There's half a bottle of Beaujolais in the fridge. Yours if you want it." He looks at me long and hard. He is not amused. If I keep my expression bland, he won't know for sure if I am having him on.

"Doctor Watson." He concludes, "You are a barbarian."

Sherlock interrupts. "What's wrong with your wine agent?"

"I am between agents at present. The last one … did not appreciate that I do not tolerate substitutes. For Pavel's, I must have Petrus that is drinkable and in sufficient quantities. So I am hiring you to do it."

"Me? What for? You have an entire bloody military at your disposal. And all the MIs. Plus an executive assistant. Get one of them to do it."

"Yes. But they lack experience in the delicate task of locating, selecting and transporting wines. Sherlock, there is a deadline looming and this is clearly not a job for amateurs. I must have that wine in particular. It was unanimously agreed at last year's dinner. A dozen bottles of the '98 Petrus or the meal is ruined and England's place on the world stage compromised."

"I won't do it. And neither will John." He takes a severe look at me as I open my mouth to argue about billable hours. His stare is enough for me to temporarily hold my tongue.

"I hadn't thought …" Mycroft shakes his head as if shuddering at the idea of me taking the case. "However … in principle, I suppose it would be possible. He does technically work with you but success is improbable. No, Sherlock, I must insist that you do this. The annual meal at Pavel's is … crucial. Everything must be perfection. Not just excellent. Perfection. The guest list is … well … I don't need to tell you, do I? Doctor Watson, do make him see reason."

"I have my orders." I say and then, even though all I can think of is that near zero balance, I go silent. I know enough to get out of the way of two titans battling. I also know which one I back.

"Damn you, Sherlock. I will pay you." There is no reaction so he continues. "Handsomely. A finder's fee of … five hundred pounds a bottle."

My heart leaps. The math is easy. And rewarding. I am certain Sherlock will have it sorted in less than a day. Surely.

"Five hundred?" He scoffs and wheels away. "I am the world's only consulting detective. You are asking me to locate some wine for your little dinner party. That is an insult."

"Sherlock …" I edge in with a whisper.

"Alright. A thousand."

The total rises. Twelve thousand pounds for a few bottles of wine? He must see the reason in taking the case. I wait for Sherlock to accept the offer.

"Impossible. I won't do it. You have any number of resources at your disposal. You are doing this just to … spite me."

"Sherlock!" I say. The math has doubled. I imagine the numbers on the receipts will refuse to look at as proof of bank balance he does not wish to acknowledge.

"I am asking you because … you will not make a hash of the job. This is a matter of great importance to me personally and professionally. Fifteen hundred. And know that this is highway robbery."

"A hash? Hash? Dear God! Surely you have *some* respect for my talents! For that, dear brother, my minimum price is … five thousand pounds. Per bottle. Plus all expenses. Including the wine. And not a penny less."

"Sherlock!" I hiss at him. Sixty thousand dollars for a few bottles of wine?! He is going to price us right out of the market and we will literally be back to zero. The fifteen hundred was more than enough.

"Listen to Doctor Watson, Sherlock. He knows what I know – and that is - the alarming state of your affairs. You cannot afford to say no. I want a dozen bottles of '98 Petrus. Delivered to Pavel's in precisely twenty days. And – to demonstrate my good faith and how important this is to me, damn you – I even concede to pay you what you ask… five thousand pounds per bottle … upon delivery."

"Deal!" I say before Sherlock says another word.

X x xxx xxx xxx x

Author's note: As ever, thank you for reading. Feel free follow the story so you get update notices. Also feel free to comment. Feedback is always welcome and can inspire story elements, new directions and me generally getting on with the story. : D


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Sherlock imagines that my military training makes me more susceptible to obeying direct orders.

I'll admit, the reflex to a command is strong, but I am also a doctor. As such, I am capable of independent thought. And I am not working at all at the moment except for him. He and I – we both need the money – even if I am the only one remotely aware of it. So it is possible that I blurted out a 'yes' purely based on the hysterical sum of sixty thousand pounds. I stand by my actions but he considers it an egregious breach of protocol. He says egregious with such energy he nearly lifts off the floor. I argue strongly that I can't use protocol to pay rent or buy food. Apparently, his five thousand dollar a bottle counter-offer was a nothing but a ruse and I am too stupid to recognize both sarcasm and brinkmanship when I see it.

In short, he resents the fact that I have accepted the work. If pressed, and judging by the following days of inactivity, I would say he takes it very badly. For three days he throws himself from chair to couch to chair - muttering, ranting and raving – rendering his reaction into a fine art. For two of those days, my efforts to get him moving yields derision, impatience and a tantrum so explosive I think he might burst a blood vessel. I have lived in a war zone; I am a veteran. I know how to tough out a storm so I leave him undisturbed while he balls himself up and sulks on the chesterfield. Still – the only thing standing between us and sixty thousand pounds is – I am certain – a modest bit of effort on his part. Around mid afternoon on day three, I consider time to be up and start in on him again.

"Pavel's. That's where Mycroft said we have to deliver the wine. But I can't seem to find it anywhere."

I have the laptop on my knees and am talking to his back. He has scuttled under a blanket and has curled himself up tightly. He has not made a sound in hours but I know he is awake by his breathing.

"Doesn't come up on any search engine."

Nothing.

"I've checked everywhere including Visit London, Michelin Guide, and Zagat. By the way Mycroft went on about it, I was sure that Zagat would have it. It sounds well posh. Fine food usually get some kind of review." I wait. "Wouldn't you say?"

Still nothing.

"And I did a bit of work on the Petrus. 1998 was a good year. Pricey stuff though. Well over a thousand pounds a bottle retail. Some of them up to three thousand pounds and more. The Kennedy's drank it at the White House. Incredible."

He still takes none of the bait.

"Come on, Sherlock. I am sorry this is beneath you but it is sixty thousand pounds. And technically, you **did** set the price."

A snort comes up from the blankets. He sounds like an irritated thoroughbred and tries to give the impression that I am bound to get kicked if I get too close.

"Sherlock?" I won't let him be. "Come on. Don't be that way."

All I get is diva silence. I stare at the plaid mound. He thinks he has me beat by using inertia and silence to his advantage. But he forgets - I have spent a good part of my life on a battlefield; I know how to play dirty. Still - I am now without compassion and am overcome with a benevolent willingness to extend one last chance.

"Sherlock, this is going to be a piece of cake for you. Twelve bottles of wine. How hard can it be? How long will it take you? Half a day? Pick up a full case and we deliver it to Pavel's. Just that easy. Then you can go back to your nap. Nap for a month if you like once we cash that cheque." I wait. There is nothing but breathing. Jesus. He can be stubborn. Yet, so can I.

"Alright." I say, readying. "Fine. Be that way. We have agreed to help your brother. A verbal binding agreement. If you won't help, then I am left to do this alone. You hear me? Sherlock? If you won't help me, I'll do it myself. On my own. My way."

As I expected, there is still no reaction. It is time to bring out the heavy artillery. I take out my phone and dial. There is a pause, then I respond to the opening hello.

"Hello, Greg. It's me, John. I need your help ..."

I don't get much past that. At the mention of Lestrade's first name, Sherlock explodes out of the tartan cocoon.

"NO!" He stands and points at me and a warning. "I forbid-!"

He has no effect on my expression or my conversational tone. I avoid eye contact with him and continue. I brush the top of my lap top with my fingertips as I talk.

"... Greg, I was wondering if you could ..."

Sherlock leaps over the table, wrenches the phone from my hand and takes over the call.

"John is wondering no such thing. Good bye, Lestrade! Hanging up now!" He disconnects the phone and throws it aside even though I hold out my hands and ready for a catch. It clatters along the floor until it hits the wall.

"Sherlock. That's my phone."

"The question is not where we get more wine but what happened to the original bottles!"

"What?"

"Do you have fifty pounds?"

"No. That's why we need ..."

"Twenty?"

"Maybe if I count out all the change. Where are we going?"

He disappears into his room, the dressing gown already off his shoulders and billowing behind him like a sail. From beyond he calls out.

"Waterloo Bridge! Then on to Pavels!"

X x xxx xxx xxx x

I am hardly settled in the cab when the phone rings. I dig into my pocket and stop the noise with "Hello?"

"What was that all about? You alright?"It's Lestrade.

"Yes, fine." I look at Sherlock who is in his own world as he writes a note in his book.

"You sure? Sherlock sounds a bit wound up."

"Yes. Well. It's all sorted."

"Meet up for a pint later?"

"Sure."

"Bring Sherlock, if he'll come."

All at once, Sherlock tears the sheet out of the book and folds it around one of two twenty pounds note we have had to borrow from Mrs Hudson. She sighed when she went for her hand bag and there was a little speech before she handed Sherlock the money. I think we break her heart. These are terrible times.

"Alright," I say. "I'll see if he will."

As Sherlock finishes, he looks up at me. "Tell Lestrade to concentrate on Euston Station."

"What?" I say in return.

"What?" Greg answers me.

"Uh …" I say to him in return, "He says to concentrate on Euston Station. I don't know what that means."

There is silence on the other end.

"Hello?" It sounds like the phone has gone dead. There's not even any ambient noise that I can discern. "Hello? Greg? Are you there?"

"Bloody hell." He says and then hangs up.

"Stop here, driver!' Sherlock orders the cab driver to wait as we pull up under the bridge and I hang up my phone and lag behind him. He leaps over the railing and lands sure-footed and still moving. I do a bit of a roll over the railing after him and tweak the ache in my injured shoulder caused first by a bullet and then from the recent days of cold and damp. I call to him to wait up but only when we get onto the landing does he slow and I fall into step at his side.

There, under the bridgeworks, she sits; the one we visit sometimes. She has several mis-matched tatty layers on and the outermost glistens with moisture from the terrible misting from the river and the weather. The hoodie is jammed around the back of her neck and gives her a grey cowl – she looks tough from a distance but up closer, she just looks young. She has mousy longish hair that she hasn't combed in a while; it is tied back but not neatly. When she first notices us, she brings her one bag a bit closer to her side. She is suspicious or maybe just careful. As we approach, she recognizes us and calls out.

"Change?" She talks to Sherlock but then takes a momentary look at me. She knows who both of us are; she acknowledges each of us in order of familiarity. I can't recall ever having spoken to her directly. "Any spare change?"

"What for?"

Cup of tea, of course." She smiles a bit. That's the coded exchange that they use. She's pleased to know the right answer.

He pauses as if he might pass her by and then at the last moment, slips her the money wrapped in a note. "Here's twenty."

"Thanks." She takes it and nods and unfurls the note and jams the money deep into her pocket.

"Come on, John! Cab's waiting!" Sherlock is already on his way. I have to hurry to keep up but at the top of the stairs, I take one backwards glance at her. She is reading holding the note with one hand and places her other hand low against abdomen and rubs back and forth as women sometimes do. The image stays with me long after we are back in the cab.

Sherlock gives directions to the cab driver and we ride through the streets of London in silence.

"What's her name?" I ask.

"Who?"

"The Waterloo Bridge Girl." I wait in silence. It goes on a bit too long. I look out the window when I come to the conclusion. "You don't know her name, do you?"

"Not off hand." He is indifferent; insensitive. This detail is inconsequential to him. But to me, she is a young woman and her life – as far as I can tell – consists of nothing but begging for money at Waterloo. Where does she sleep at night? What about food? What happens when it snows? How does she get on in life?

"Sherlock …"

"Oh, don't start. We have an efficient business arrangement. I get information for fair market value. I don't need to know her name."

To myself – I think – a name would be a start. It could lead to a bit of trust. Perhaps in time, it would be enough to see her get off the street. I think of her fingerless gloves and her grey cowl and how she snatched at the money and then bent over the message. The money was everything. And the way she held her abdomen - like Harry used to when she had cramps. I have lived outside for protracted periods of time – even under the auspices of the Armed Forces who did what they could to make me as comfortable as possible - it is a hard life. It is cold. Wet. Dirty. Unforgiving. And she … is just so … young.

Eventually, I say. "It would be nice to ask her name."

"What possible purpose would it serve? Knowing her name does not make the information any better nor the price any lower."

"Never mind." I say. "I am sorry I brought it up."

X x xxx xxx xxx x

Pavel's is in unimpressive from the outside. There would be no reason to call in if you didn't know any better. There is no front sign; no flash of colour or extra parking. Just a modest door with three metal numbers screwed in over the door frame. It is the ultimate sign of exclusivity. You need to know where you are going to get here.

He knocks. We wait. A woman that I don't initially see invites us in.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes," She greets him. "Julia Wainwright. I am the maitre d. Your brother told me you would visit. So nice to meet you."

"Yes. I am sure it is."

I step around the ego and introduce myself. "John Watson."

It's the first I get to see of her. When she offers her hand, I take it and we shake. Her skin is warm and soft and as she nears, I get a whiff of a perfume that makes me want to linger close. She blinks as if she has never once been in a rush.

"Please, gentlemen. Won't you come into warmth of the sitting room? There's a lovely fire just started."

I am all set to go but catch a sidelong glance from Sherlock. A part of me dies because I know that he is not the least bit interested in hospitality.

"What I would like, Miss Wainwright, is to see your wine cellars."

"Of course." She says. "Follow me."

I outstep Sherlock and is the first in line after her. Her dress is tailored and fits in all the right places – and from my angle – shows off everything to best advantage. Her high heels make her hips sway and there is an ease to her stride. That kind of confidence could leave a man helpless.

By the time we get to the wine cellar, I feel flushed and realize I have missed conversation as we collect into a little semi circle.

"Right, John?" He looks at me with a lofty lift of an eyebrow. He is certain I have not heard a word.

"Well …" I start as if weighing options. It makes him smirk with satisfaction because I have proven him right. I don't quite care since Miss Wainright is none the wiser and she is all that matters.

"Yes. Of course, John." He cuts me off. "My brother gave me a brief description of what happened but I want you to tell me. What happened?"

She opens the door and we enter a room. There's a large panel on the left – clearly atmosphere controls. Beyond that – shelves and shelves of wine stored on the horizontal. At the end, there is a secondary room. Scripted labels contain names and numbers and dates and give the room a sense of order and elegance.

"Last week, we had a fault in the system. The back room where we keep all of our best wines … well … the heat went up and all the stock was ruined. Including Mr Holmes' Petrus. That was a terrible loss for us. Insurance covers it, of course, but that is entirely beside the point. We are … exclusive. And we cater to an elite clientele. I am sure you can appreciate we hold these wines in trust and they expect their wines safely stored and ready for their … special occasions."

"Who discovered the fault?"

"Our sommelier Kurt." She says. "He was beside himself. We were having a dinner for the Belgians that night. It was a frightful scramble to get them something drinkable."

"What was wrong? Who did the repairs?" Sherlock continues to ask questions as he looks around, taking in what I imagine is ever detail worth observing. I do the same as it relates to the lovely Miss Wainright.

"A mechanical fault. We have a property maintenance service."

"You know the man who fixed it?"

"He has been here before, if that's what you mean."

"What did he say about the problem?"

"Only that it was a mechanical issue. Not anything he felt could have been prevented."

"Hmm." Sherlock ends the interview. "Well, Miss Wainright. I think there is sufficient misinformation in what you have been told to make any more questions from me irrelevant except one. Where can I purchase more Petrus 1998. I will need a case of twelve."

She laughs. It sounds like angels.

"Is there something funny?"

"Oh, Mr Holmes. Has no one told you? You can't buy Petrus '98 by the case. They are expensive. First because it is an extraordinary wine. But secondly, because is so very rare. You are going to have to find your twelve one bottle at a time."

X x xxx xx x xxx x

Author's note: As ever, thank you for reading. Feel free to comment and / or follow the story. Feedback is always welcome and can inspire story elements, new directions and generally getting on with the story. : D


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

It is my fault he thought he could buy Petrus by the case. I shrug it off. I have been wrong before; I will be wrong again. However, for Sherlock - the facts to the contrary hit him hard and stops him in mid-conversation. While tempted otherwise, he takes it without immediate complaint. We are in polite company and she has information that he needs. Lecturing me can happen at any time; no doubt something I will look forward to.

The pause in our interview grows uncomfortable. Miss Wainwright thinks it's her fault because she laughed. Clearly, she had no intention to mock us but that is exactly what she believes she has done. I want tell her no - he's always like this when his will is thwarted.

"I am sorry." she says again. "I thought you … well ... Because your brother … He is such a connoisseur. You are not a connoisseur, are you, Mr Holmes?"

His eyebrow arches so high I think he will strain his forehead. I retreat a step because I do not want his reaction to tarnish my chances with her.

His answer comes out like bullets. "Not of wines, no."

Then he pauses and carries on with more fluency. "If you have such an extensive collection, how did you acquire all this?"

"Us? The high end bottles come from our clients. The house wines are long established purchases with a few trusted suppliers."

"Then why the devil do you employ a sommelier?"

"At any one time, this cellar can hold hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of wine. We need to care for the wines until the patrons use them. Then we have to ensure that the wines are served properly. Kurt is also invaluable for questions and planning menus. He contributes to the ambiance of the dining experience itself. Once a month he holds pairing and tasting seminars. It is almost impossible to book a table. Honestly, some of our client will not plan so much as a single bite if he is not part of the meeting. I am very sorry to disappoint you, Mr Holmes. But here, let me show you the kitchen." She says to make amends.

We are through the dining room and at the kitchen door when Sherlock's phone rings. Miss Wainwright and I both stop and stand aside while he answers.

"Hello? Yes."

There's a beat. He frowns. I wonder who is on the other end and what the news is. He starts to swing around and then abandons the action in mid movement.

"Who is calling please?"

"Just a moment." He holds out the phone. "It's for you."

"Sorry. What?" No one ever calls Sherlock to get to me; everyone calls me to get to Sherlock. "Me? Who is it?"

"Didn't say." He wiggles the phone to hurry me along.

I take the phone. "Hello?" There is silence and then it clicks into a dial tone. Against all logic I repeat myself. "Hello?" There is still a dial tone.

I hand back the phone. "They hung up. Any idea ...?

Yes. By the look of him he has plenty of ideas but he shakes his head. It's a discussion but not for now.

We push through the doors and step into another world. Wafts of mouthwatering aromas envelop me. Jesus. It smells fantastic. I can't go any further and stop and breathe and take it all in. A taste. All I want is a little taste.

"Chef Pavel ..." She starts to introduce us. A man in chef whites – younger than I expected – comes forward.

"There really is a Pavel?"

She gives me another gracious smile. "Yes. You are not the only one who is surprised."

Chef Pavel bows from the waist. "Dobro pozhalovat." Russian. His accent is quite thick.

"Dobryy den." I answer with an unschooled accent. There are two other men in the kitchen who look up. They have a hard Slavic look to them and I imagine they are also Russian. Pavel smiles and then waves us on. I'm glad he doesn't respond because I don't know much more than that but it has had the effect of impressing Miss Wainwright and irritating Sherlock. I get double points this round.

Sherlock does not acknowledge the most exclusive chef in London and starts down the one side of the kitchen. He stops here and there – looking up and down, across and back. We follow and Miss Wainwright details the interesting parts as we go.

Pavel's kitchen is a vast stainless steel cauldron of steam, heat, noise, business and focus. There are knives at every turn and slap down on boards; chopping dicing prepping goes faster that I can almost see. On one side – there are pastries being piped full of whipped cream by a youngish woman - plump - and that makes me think she is good at what she does. The other side is the meat and potatoes side though I'm certain I will be kicked out and branded a heathen if I call it that. The kitchen expands down the line – ovens, stoves, pots of this and that, stacks and stacks of plates. At the far end of the kitchen a bank of sinks and dishwashers. There's two young men – pale, skinny and almost boys – with closely shorn heads – scrubbing and rinsing and stacking. Beyond that - the exit door opens and in sneaks a third. He flicks away a cigarette butt before he lets the door close then eyes us. He lowers his eyes and takes up the vacant spot at the sink and tries not to be noticed.

"There is nothing more to see here." Sherlock declares, does an about face and heads for the front door.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Wainwright," I hold out my hand. I take a business card out of my back pocket and offer it. "If you think of anything, do please call. Even if you don't," I smile at her a bit wryly, "Please, give me a call."

She laughs and rewards me with her first name. "Doctor Watson. Thank you. And call me Julia. She slips the card between her index and middle fingers and winks. I'm not sure if she means it or if it's just part of her natural charm. Still, it makes me happy.

X x xxx xx x xxx x

In the car, I ask. "Alright. What was that about?"

He knows what I mean without further words.

"A lieutenant you served with in Afghanistan is in a great deal of trouble."

"What? You exchanged less than ten words."

"He called my number looking for you. Your friends call you not me. So he knows you but has lost contact. He called you Captain, not doctor. So clearly, you have served together in the military. You have been separated perhaps by rotation or more probably injury. In the background, there was a clicking noise that kept a walking pace – every other step – likely lost his leg above the knee, not below and is walking with a prosthetic. If knee joint makes a noise, it may be out of repair. That suggests he has other issues. He was out of breath and panicked when he spoke. He wanted to talk to you but then hung up yet had gone to some effort to find you. Thus, he is likely in some bit of trouble."

"Hmm." I say and don't tell him I am impressed. I still am. Even now. I just don't tell him anymore. It's repetitive and his ego does not need the reinforcement.

I stare out the window and let the scenery blur past as I sink into thought. Who do I know that fits that description? Who called me Captain with any regularity? My designation depended on the circumstances. Sometimes I was Captain. Sometimes Doctor. I could even be goddamned mother fucker when the situation called for it and the spirit moved me.

All at once, I hear Sherlock's voice. "Julie Wainright."

"Hmm?" I say coming to, "What about Julie?"

"Nothing. I am trying to get your attention. Did Lestrade invite you to the pub tonight?"

"Yes. Yes of course. You know he did."

"I want to come with you."

I blink. He never comes with us. "What?"

"I need someone to teach me about wines."

"Oh. Right." I say and wonder if I should call ahead and warn them. They have met Sherlock and he has never technically been kicked out of the establishment. There is that going for him. It remains to be seen if his streak continues.

As if on cue, my phone blips. It's a text from Lestrade.

MAY BE LATE

OH? I type back.

HAVE A BODY

ANYTHING INTERESTING?

M VIC THROAT CUT

TRY TO MAKE IT TONIGHT

Y

SHERLOCK IS JOINING US.

WTF

I'M SELLING TICKETS.

X x xxx xx x xxx x

When we get to the front door of 221B, Mrs Husdon is waiting for us.

"Boys …" She beckons us into her flat and talks in a hushed voice. "There's someone here to see you, I think."

"…and?" Sherlock wastes no time getting to the heart of it.

"And … well … you be careful. I don't like the look of him. Tattoos all over him." Her hand circles the left side of her face. "Terrible scarring." Then she pulls her shoulders up. "Big as a brick house, too. Filled the hallway when he passed through. So you boys be careful."

Sherlock is bounding up the stairs, driven by curiosity and excitement. "Yes, Mrs Hudson. Thank you! We will take care. John, we don't want to keep our guests waiting!"

"Right behind you." I say and then pause because Mrs Hudson pulls me back a moment.

"I meant what I said. Be careful. Look after Sherlock."

"I always do, Mrs Hudson. I always do."

X x xxx xx x xxx x

Author's note: As ever, thank you for reading. Feel free to comment and / or follow the story. Feedback is always welcome and can inspire story elements, new directions and generally getting on with the story. : D


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

By the time I get upstairs there is a right ruckus underway in the form of yelling. I am less than a minute behind and already there's an argument? That's fast – even for Sherlock.

"Oi! I enter with a certain amount of authority. "Settle down!"

I stride in, get in three steps and stop sharp. Mrs Hudson was quite right. The man is the size of a bear. His shoulder span seems to crowd everything else to the edges of the room. At the sound of my voice, he abandons Sherlock, drops his arm and turns towards me.

"Captain!" He recognizes me and bounds forward in a lurching motion. He is a mass of muscle, scarring and tattoos and keeps coming for me. The prosthetic knee squeaks and has not been adjusted to his gait properly. Maybe it lost the timing from lack of maintenance. The part of his face that still works turns upwards in a grin. "Cap! Jesus Christ! Cap! It's you!"

"Arty?" I ask, knowing that it is – in fact him.

He is going too fast for the lag timing of his prosthetic. In his last step, he stumbles and falls into me. As he recovers, he turns it into an enthusiastic welcome and I am caught in a hug that rattles my bones. He claps me hard on my injured shoulder and I feel the pain shoot straight through my scapula and radiate up and out to my neck and spine. I grit my teeth and muffle a grunt from the impact.

"Cap!" The hugging rounds out and he pushes me back to arms length. "Jesus. Jesus! Cap! It's good to see you. I been looking all over for you. All over! You always said if I ever needed it, you'd help. All I had to do was find you. Well, I need help. It's bad, Cap. It's really bad." He shakes his head and tears up. He has gone from larger than life to a shell of a man in moments.

Arty is a startling individual. He is as intense now as he was when I knew him in Afghanistan. Maybe more so now. He stands in front of me; his pupils are as wide as saucers and he appears on some kind of severe high that makes him even more high fidelity than usual. Even when I knew him, he drank. Everyone finds their way to deal with the stress. I never blamed him for the excess. He was a munitions expert. Anyone who spends their life handling explosives and dismantling land mines and undetonated ordinance is allowed to be high strung. I remember watching him from a distance as he diffused an IED discovered on a trip back to base. Even from my vantage point of relative safety, I could hardly stand it. But Arty? He had the precision of a surgeon, the concentration of a chess master and stone cold nerves of steel.

When it was over, he and Rickie carried on as if nothing out of the ordinary happened but that weekend, they made a special effort getting drunk. They were out of commission for two days.

Rickie. There's another person I haven't thought of in a long while. He and Arty were inseparable. Both in munitions. Both from same town. They were as close as brothers.

The last time I saw Arty, he was laid out in front of me bleeding to death on the floor of a Chinook helicopter. He was on a forward mission and his vehicle hit a land mine. When the call came in for us to go airborne, the sun was already setting. By the time we picked up Arty, Rickie and the rest of his crew, we were perfectly lit for the enemy and were under fire the whole time we were in the air. Sammy was our pilot. Good man, Sammy. Never one for a panic if he could help it.

All at once despite the safety of 221B, I can hear the sounds at the same volume as if I am kneeled on the floor of the Chinook. The memory triggers claustrophobia. Air squeezes out of my lungs and I feel the phantom weight of a uniform laden with kit and body armour. There's the great roar of the engine, the blades whacking at 250 rpms, my medical crew and five patients – three are unconscious – one of them is Rickie. Two are screaming including mine – Arty – and then Sammy's voice comes over in my headset. I already know something's off. The ambient vibration of the helicopter has dropped a gear. It doesn't feel right. The flight has destabilized. Sammy is swearing. Hard.

"Couple of bad hits on the air frame." He says.

"Sammy?" One word from me encourages more information. I keep working on Arty. His leg is mangled. Bone fragments and flesh protrude from his fatigues. Half his face is exposed skull and teeth. Jesus. I wish for his sake that he was unconscious.

"Rickie! Where's Rickie?!" Impossibly, Arty tries to get up. A catastrophic injury and he's still got the power to move. I battle with him – close quarter combat and get half covered in his blood. I only barely win the fight. He falls back and screams.

"Three rounds through the windshield." More swearing. "Bleeding on the controls. I'm hit. No idea where."

I have the sensation of my head splitting in three. In front of me I have Arty bleeding. Across from me, two paramedics work under my direction to handle three other patients. Further on, there's a nurse doing her best solo care with Rickie. Now I have a mental image of Sammy in the cockpit. I start trying to diagnose where the hell he is hit and how bad it is. Of anyone in the Chinook, we need to keep Sammy conscious. He is the only one keeping us in the air. If we go down, we all die, not just our wounded.

"MAYDAY. This is Tango Whisky 73. Twenty miles to the east. We've taken rounds through the cockpit. I have lost engine telemetry."

Arty makes one more howling scream before I get an IV in and he starts to fade. From the corner of my eye, I see one of the paramedics who has been working intently over a patient suddenly sit back and rest on his heels. His whole body sags and his hands settle idly on his thighs. I know without being told that the soldier is dead. Shit. I motion the paramedic to move on and pair up with my nurse. I don't want to lose any more this trip.

"Sammy." I say. "Where do you feel the pain?" It might be a clue but he's probably so jacked on adrenaline he doesn't feel anything.

"I … chest?" There's a pause and I use the silence to progress with Arty and call out another instruction to the paramedic. Sammy comes back on the air. "Shit!"

"Talk to me, Sammy. What does that mean?"

"I've been hit in the chest. There's blood all down my front. Shit. Shit."

Chest? Through his vest? I ask him again. "Where do you feel the pain?"

"My left hand has gone numb … Oh …." It sounds like a revelation. "Shit."

The Chinook shudders and wobbles in the air. There is a descent so fast it feels like freefall and then there's a sudden halt. My stomach drops and one of the paramedics pukes up an entire meal. I look up. He's tough enough to wipe his face and carry on but the cabin smells like vomit. It's rank. I feel sweat running down into the small of my back. Jesus Christ.

"Sammy. Your arm. Is it a spurt or an ooze?"

"An ooze …"

I keep working on Arty and can see Sammy's injury as if I was beside him. He's been hit in the arm – likely high up – and for the grace of bloody God alone, hasn't hit an artery. If the enemy stops shooting at us, we might actually live.

"Pressure on it if you can …"

It feels like we are in the air an eternity. The helicopter takes another round of hits. Arty lapses into unconsciousness. I ask and Rickie is still alive and like all of our remaining patients, wounded badly and deteriorating. The whole time the beat of the chopper blades kept pace with my heart beat. Between it all, Sammy and I keep talking. There's another MAYDAY, another ETA. It's less than ten minutes to Bastion. He's hit bad enough but not fatal if we can stay in the air long enough to get home.

On the landing, we take a wicked left-sided bounce and for ten blinding seconds, I think we are going to tip right the hell over and have the blades shatter and hack us to pieces but Sammy gets us back down in one piece. When he disembarks, he waves to me, one hand with thumbs up and then collapses. We get the patients out – Arty and Rickie are both alive.

I debrief my crew shortly after. It's been a bad ride but the medicine is good. Almost all our soldiers return alive. We break up and I know that of the three of them, one is going to the bar, one is going to puke until he dry heaves and the third is going to hide somewhere and cry her eyes out. I flatter myself by thinking I am fine and that it has had no real effect on me. I am their leader; they rely on me so for them I must be strong. Still – at three in the morning – I am outside, wandering in the shadows of the compound and staring into the darkness.

"Really bad." Arty says, claps me on the shoulder one last time. It's the pain that brings me back to the present. He finally lets me go. I feel mauled by the contact and ask him to sit. He doesn't and paces back and forth. He's on something. I'm not sure what. Or maybe it's a manic episode brought on by God knows what. I stay standing because he is unpredictable. I am not likely to win if it comes to that but I will be able to slow him down. Of that much, I have confidence.

"Sit down." Sherlock says. And then to me, "My earlier caller. Right on all counts."

"I was looking for Cap. He saved my life. See? My leg? Not there anymore! But I'm alive." He smacks his chest hard. The sound resonates. "Saved my life. Cap'll always be there for you."

"Quite." Then Sherlock asks. "Why did you hang up?"

"You hung up on me!"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I didn't hang up! "

Ah. I think. The cause of the earlier yelling. Accusations from all sides.

"Why are you here, Arty?" I interrupt before they can get lost in it.

"I need help, Cap. It's bad." He digs deep into his pocket and hands me a wad of paper – a roll of bills – and it's held together with an elastic band.

"I can pay. Whatever you charge. I can pay. I need you to help me. It's bad."

"Yes. That much is abundantly clear … Mr …" Sherlock waits for a natural filling in of the blanks to happen and is left unanswered. "… Arty."

"What is bad, Arty?" I ask. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Yeah. No. It's all wrong." Before I get a chance to ask him to explain, he goes on. "What time is it?" Arty looks at me. "Cap. I … I sold my watch. Had to. What's the time? I can't be late … Rickie … Rickie would know what to do …"

"Rickie. How is Rickie? Do you still see him?" I distract him with small talk and try to get him calmed down. "Arty. It's nearly three o'clock. We want to help you, Arty. Listen. Why don't you sit? You still haven't told us what is wrong."

He growls. "Three. Three. Three … I have to go. I am sorry. I … need your number, Cap." He holds out his hands for my business card.

I dig into my back pocket and hand him two cards. "Write yours on the back of one, Arty. Give me a number where I can contact you. I'm sure we can help you. When would …"

"I gotta go." He is almost dancing with anxiety to leave. "Listen. Whatever anyone says, I didn't do it … I didn't!" He grabs my business cards and bolts.

"Come back. Arty! You need to give me your number!" I go after him but he slides down the staircase using the hand railing. He has a good head start but I catch up to him at the bottom. He gives me a hard shove backwards and the brute strength of it makes me fall square on my backside. He slams the door and is gone. I recover and make a good effort looking up and down the street. When I abandon the chase and return, our room seems to be expand to twice its normal size.

It is impossible to settle. I wander from this side of the room to that trying to carry on a conversation with Sherlock. His questions are like buzzing in my ears. I fill in the blanks he asks for but there is a vividness of the events that I cannot get across. I retreat into one word answers and lose myself. What did Arty want? What kind of help does he need? What didn't he do? Where is Rickie? What happened to him? How am I going to find him? It annoys me that I did not insist on getting his contact information for him. I unfurl the wad of bills – only the outermost layers are currency and there's four fivers and a ten but that's where it ends. The rest of the bulk are coupons that have been torn from papers and given out with flyers. I show it to Sherlock but can't watch him do his thing with the contents because I feel an uncontrollable need for space. I move to the window. In the background, I hear Sherlock get up. In my mind, there's a defibrillator tracing the beat of a heart but it's just him at the microwave setting the timer. The dreariness of the day has never stopped and l look up at the sky. Ceiling high enough to fly, I think to myself. I turn away and begin towards the center of the room. He appears from the kitchen and we meet in the middle of the room. I stop because he will not let me pass. He is standing there with a mug of tea in one hand and a half-eaten box of cookies in the other.

"You." He says to me and leading with his chin, tilts his head towards my favorite chair. "Sit."

"I'm alright."

"I said sit."

"Sherlock …" I still don't obey.

"Here." He thrusts both the tea and the cookies into my hands in a way that forces me to take them both. He maneuvers me into taking a step back and there is nothing for it now but to sit. I have a drink of the tea. It has been reheated from breakfast and has wrong proportions of milk and sugar but it is nice and hot. I take a second sip. There's an easing in my chest as it goes down. A warmth radiates to my extremities and I exhale enough that my shoulders loosen. I have another drink. I decide that it tastes just fine.

"Thank you." I say.

"I can't think with your pacing."

I dig into the box for the cookies. There's still whole ones left. I feel rewarded and jam one into my mouth. "I wasn't pacing."

"Yes. Yes you were. We have work to do. You're no good to me when you're in Afghanistan. I need you here, now in London." He tries to make it sound like a reprimand but when he sits, he turns the chair and makes sure I remain well within his view. He is careful to let me finish the tea and eat undisturbed.

"What makes you think I was –"

He doesn't answer me with anything but a lifted eyebrow that tells me I am an idiot.

X x xxx xx x xxx x

Author's note: As ever, thank you for reading. Feel free to comment and / or follow the story. Feedback is always welcome and can inspire story elements, new directions and generally getting on with the story. : D


	5. Chapter 5

Casefile: Matters of Varying Importance

CHAPTER 5

I sit in a booth one off center and watch. If I had known this was what pub night was going to be, I really would have sold tickets. The entertainment thus far has been immense. My only regret is that Lestrade is not yet here. He will be gutted if he finds out he has missed this.

I take another sip of beer, push the empty plate of fish and chips aside and settle back to enjoy the rest of the evening. Sherlock is on the other side of the bar, his sleeves rolled up and row of glasses spread before him. Behind, beside, and in front of him are a wide array of wines. He is under the strict and exacting instruction of Cindy the bartender. Early on, and hilariously so, she taught him how to property schloop the wine over his tongue, swish it around like a pre-gargle mouth wash and then spit it out. It is a routine that I have seen him repeat over and over though he is apt to forget to spit when the results yield some particular need for annotation. The whole routine makes him looks like a pretentious toff and I have taken great satisfaction in telling him so several times – eve expanding and varying the specifics on my theme. This, too, makes him forget to spit. Cindy has created a fledgling expert and she continues to give him instruction periodically as she works. He has another swig in his mouth and I am waiting for him to gargle. If I am patient, the opportunity to inspire a spit take will present itself. It will be a victory if I can.

At his makeshift wine station behind the bar, he has quickly settled into his new environment. I give him full credit. Sherlock is a natural bartender. That is – he has the chemistry and the science of wine down in no time. Still, Cindy is in no risk of losing her job since he has an appalling way with customers. As if on cue to prove my point, a trio of young women land at the end of the bar. Attracted by cheek bones or height or hair or intense gaze … maybe he just has a perfect combination of pheromones that set women off. All that matters is that he has made every other male in a room invisible without even being aware of it. These women swarm in and it is their clear objective to mercilessly flirt with him. The trio all have low cleavage that they expose even further by the way they lean over the bar and each other as they giggle and blink and bat their long eyelashes at him. Even from my vantage point, it's a treat and I can only imagine what Sherlock's view is like. That is – if he had the sense to take it in. One of them eats the cherry out of her drink like she is auditioning for a soft porn film. I have to clear my throat from the sudden warmth of the room but Sherlock scatters them with a single scathing observation and tells them – in his exact words – to "take your pedestrian and wholly unappealing burlesque act elsewhere. Your frivolous behavior is on the brink of ruining my entire evening." They back up, of course, and he misses what can only be described as a vivisection of glares and curses.

With them gone, he consults his phone. I am sure there's several screens of cross-referenced data – and there's both apps and, I suspect of far more immediate value, a place to record his notes. His capacity to take up information is almost instant; his ability to then apply it is confounding. In less than two hours of applied study, he has gone from neophyte to low grade expert. At this rate, he should achieve sommelier first class by the end of the evening. And along the way, I get the distinct amusement of making periodic 30 second videos with my phone of him as he slurps and swishes and spits. After some assessment, he has – according to Cindy – a sophisticated pallet and when this announcement is made I groan inwardly. That's all I need; one more thing he is fantastic at. I look down at my phone and replay the latest video I have of him. It is wonderfully unflattering and I smile and consider how long it will take him to delete it.

"What the hell is that?" There's a voice. I look up.

"Greg." I throw Sherlock's coat to the other side and move over to make room for him. He throws me his jacket and I add it to the pile.

"Want a pint?"

"Yes. Thanks. That would be great."

"Don't." He says as I reach for the last of the change in my pocket. "My round." I view him and wonder how aware he is of our situation. He is a good friend of mine. I am certain he knows. He hides his charity in good nature. ""I insist."

When he is at the bar, he make a point of asking Sherlock for the drinks, not Cindy. When he tells Lestrade to piss off, Cindy tells him that's no way to talk to paying customers. He counters by saying that he is paying too – a fine sum of his brother's hard earned fortune – for this individual tutelage. She concedes the point but counters with the idea that Lestrade is a hard working man of the people and a regular. That makes him deserving. Sherlock draws him a pint with perfunctory precision. He slaps down a matt on the bar and the glass goes down on top with a thud.

"Power to the proletariat." Lestrade lifts his glass at Sherlock and takes a long gulp before he settles in for the rest of the show.

"How long's he be at this, then?" he asks as he slides my beer across.

"Getting on for two hours."

"Jesus. He'll be drunk in no time."

"He spits. Doesn't swallow. At least he tries to. It's all very scientific."

"Of course it is. What's this all for, anyway?"

"His brother. Has some kind of posh dinner coming up and his good wine has all gone to plonk. Sherlock is on the hunt for replacement and needs to bone up on his wines if he wants to make sure he doesn't make a hash of it."

"Can't he just buy a case of it?"

"Apparently not. And I'll thank you not to bring THAT up in front of him."

"Sore spot?"

"I thought the same thing. Turns out not. Sherlock has been … less than gracious … about my lack of wine knowledge. Thus proving unreliable, he is here doing his homework becoming better at wines than any other living human in just under ..." I check my watch, "Two hours and twenty three minutes."

"Wish I had homework like that ..." He falls silent. I understand the silence as a pause to process images and realities from the day. I let him have some space before I ask.

"Tough day?"

"God." He shuts his eyes and rests his head back. "Crime scene looked like a frigging slaughterhouse. Poor bastard had his throat slit. Killer went right across – ear to ear - but wasn't deep enough. Took the victim time to die … flailed all the hell over the place. Blood everywhere. " He exhales slowly, as if ridding himself of some attachment to the image. Then he opens his eyes and follows it with another long drink of beer. "No id. No motive. No suspects. No witnesses. Just a dead body in a random back alley."

I nod without comment. I don't need to see the pictures; I have enough mental images of my own that I can't forget.

xx xx xx xx x x

By the end of the night, we end up calling Sherlock "The Vintner" using dodgy German accents. Greg and I find it hysterical and by the time he has the nickname, he is in no real condition to argue. At some point during the proceedings, he has stopped swooshing and spitting and just swallows. He must have had a goodly portion because he has a case of the staggers going up the stairs of 221B.

In the morning, I leave Sleeping Beauty alone and go out for my morning stack of newspapers. I skip the boots because the rain has eased off to intermittent downpours. I have every expectation of being out and back between deluges.

The morning is cold and damp but there is no rain so my four block walk starts out better than it has in over a week. I descend into thoughts about Arty as I walk along and the only thing that rouses me is an unexpected voice close by that says …

"Spare change?"

I stop and glance around. It's her – The Waterloo Bridge Girl. She's a bit muddy around the edges and shivers a bit as she holds out an empty cup to me. "Spare change?" She looks at me with an expectant expression.

"Oh. Right." I say and dig into my pockets. I have no bills; only two pounds fifty in change. "I am so sorry." I say and mean it. She looks like she needs far more than that. At the very least, a good breakfast.

She takes the change that I hand and deftly slips into my hand a folded piece of paper. It is the answer to Sherlock's note. I close my hand around it and watch as she steps retreats. To her, this exchange has ended. Her hand goes back to her abdomen – same as I saw her do before.

I stand my ground and study her intently. She is scruffy and has lots of layers. Healthy enough, I suppose. But there is a thinness at her jaw. She is not as big as her clothes make her out to be. There is a faint bruise at her jaw line and there are circles under her eyes that are watery.

"Thank you." I say, finding a way to start a conversation with her. I hold up my fist with the note. "For this. He appreciates this, you know."

She makes her face into a smile that disappears just as quickly. She surveys her surroundings and then back to me. I have not left. It makes her nervous.

"I'm sorry. I don't know your name."

"No." She answers. There's more shifting back and forth. It occurs to me the only reason she doesn't run away is because of who I am and who I am connected to. She is enduring the conversation only because I work with Sherlock.

"My name is John. John Watson." I introduce myself and dig out a card from my back pocket. It is a gift. An exchange. A gesture of confidence and dignity. Ephemera that allows the conversation to continue and a chance to connect with her.

"Yeah." She nods and takes the card and looks at it with a slight squint. I wonder if she needs glasses.

"And you are … ?"

She looks up quickly. She presses her lips together and frowns. The question is direct. In her shifting expression, I see her weigh the options. If she refuses to answer, this might get back to Sherlock. He is generous and – as far as I can tell – a patron saint of the Homeless Network. Then again, if she answers the question, I will know and the distance between us will be narrowed. This – in her mind – is dangerous.

"Leslie." She blurts out. "My name is Leslie."

"Nice to meet you, Leslie." I say. She looks like she wants nothing more than to run away and I don't hold her any further. "I am sorry the amount is so small. But … if there's anything I can ever … help … "

She is gone before I can finish.

X x xxx xx x xxx x

Author's note: As ever, thank you for reading. Feel free to bookmark the story to get regular updates. I'd love you to comment on the story so far. Feedback is always welcome and can inspire story elements, new directions and generally getting on with the story. : D


	6. Chapter 6

Casefile: Matters of Varying Importance

CHAPTER SIX

In my regular scan of the papers, Lestrade's latest body is page nine news. It's buried because it's not the least bit sensational. There has been no press conference so there's no picture of him looking sternly into a camera lens. There's five paragraphs of copy so I take up what I can of the article and don't get much more than what Lestrade told me last night except an age – mid to late twenties – and a location of the body – an alley. The article also mentions the dramatic amounts of blood. A severed carotid artery will do that. Hit that and you bleed like a stuck pig. There's still no identification and given the timing, it will take him about another twenty four hours before Lestrade can get a list of new missing persons to match against his victim. A name will make this whole case go forward. He must be pacing with pent up energy anxious and waiting for things to open up.

At the end of the full stack of papers, there's still no sign of Sherlock and I do nothing for the moment to rouse him. Instead I get to work on the singular task at hand and that is locating bottles of Petrus for potential acquisition. There's only a dozen he needs but locating them is tedious. The vintage is only held in numbers of ones and twos and they are an uncommonly held brand and year. It's painstaking, repetitive work and – despite what flights of cerebral fancy Sherlock can accomplish – this is really the heart of detective work. From an hour and a half of effort, I get a list of five places and contact numbers for three others. Once I am done this list, Sherlock will then visit, verify and then collect them if they are acceptable in condition and provenance.

With the few stores I have, I start on what I think is a decent preliminary itinerary mapped out for him. A couple of the locations are in London – the rest start to move outwards from there. One is in Paris. Now it only remains to get Sherlock packed up and on his way. The sooner he gets going, the sooner we collect twelve bottles and get a cheque in return.

There is shuffling that enters the room and I hear an emphatic collapse to the sofa. There is a groan that inspires me to turn around. He is lying supine with his bare feet hanging over the arm rest. One hand is dramatically draped over his eyes. His night gown is hardly on and flows out from under his side onto the floor, ties and all.

"Good morning." I say.

He responds with something resembling a gurgle. I wait for something more articulate. Nothing is forthcoming.

I do not need to be a genius or a medical doctor for the diagnosis. "Hangover?"

He gives me another gurgle.

"To be expected, I suppose. Your body is not used to alcohol. You'll be wanting a drink of something to start rehydrating. Is the room spinning?"

"Shut up." It's a casual statement. He keeps the hand over his eyes to block the light.

"Hmm." I say, and nod considering the demand. I get up and when I reach his side, I cover him with the plaid coverlet. "You'll freeze." I stand over him a bit longer and ask, "Scale of one to ten, how bad is your headache?"

"Shut up." He says again.

I smile to myself and delight in his mildly compromised condition. He is well enough to protest so I ignore him. "I saw Leslie this morning. She passed on a note for you."

"Who?"

"Waterloo Bridge Girl."

"Did you read it?"

"Yes."

"What does it say?"

"Seventeen. The number seventeen."

"Any idea what it means?"

"Not a clue."

"Think, John. Think."

"Wha – how could I, Sherlock? It's a bloody number. Could be anything."

"It doesn't make any sense."

"What? Seventeen?"

"Why ruin the wine? Who benefits?"

Somewhere along the line, he has changed topics and not told me. It is a habit I am used to but do not appreciate. I am not a mind reader. I start in on a lecture to this effect and am interrupted by the phone.

"Hello?"

"John." It's Lestrade. "Busy?"

"No. Just trying to buck up The Vintner's spirits. He is doing poorly after last night."

Sherlock gives me another "Shut up." Clearly with this kind of monotous repetition, he is not in top shape. I almost feel badly for him. Almost. Not quite. Part of me is enjoying his suffering.

"I was wondering if you want to come to the morgue. To take a look?" He offers.

"What does Lestrade want?" Sherlock peeks out from under his arm momentarily and then replaces it. "Tell him I'm busy."

"What? The body?" I ask Greg and try to tune out Sherlock.

"Yeah. If you wouldn't mind." He makes it almost sound like it is not a request.

"Why?" He and I are good friends. Still, he is a Detective Inspector. He is well trained to play some cards close.

He doesn't answer.

I stare at Sherlock. He will be impossible to move at the moment. "Do you mean for me to bring Sherlock? He really does have … a bit of a hangover … no quite on peak form if that's what you are looking for."

"I don't have a hangover. And I am always on peak form."

Lestrade doesn't say anything for a moment. Then he takes a breath and says, "John. It's you I want. I'd like you to come if you can manage it."

X x xxx xx x xxx x

I leave Sherlock – he calls it abandonment – but make sure he is set up with a cup of strong hot tea and a glass of orange juice with directions to drink both. I also give him a cool cloth for his eyes and arrange the blanket to include his feet. I plug in his phone and leave it by the orange juice and give Mrs Hudson instructions to call in if I am not back in a couple hours. I know that this is enough to have her upstairs in twenty minutes to check in on him. This is my small revenge for his accusation that I fuss too much. Mrs Hudson will no doubt provide a level of fussing in such high contrast to mine that he will be sorry. Well – sorry if were ever to occur to him that he could or should be.

On the way to St Bart's, I try to work out why Lestrade wants to see me in particular. There is a body I am going to see but Lestrade has experts far more skilled than me to give him technical opinions, toxicology reviews and autopsy reports. Sherlock is the wunderkind who can divine insight out of thin air, not me. My contributions to this are going to be slim. Truly – what the hell do I know?

I get almost no where by the time I arrive and resign myself to taking whatever comes my way in stride. Through the doors, I know where I'm going and follow the usual route. Molly meets me in the hall as if she has been lingering in wait for me.

"Hello, Dr Watson." She smiles at me and looks up at me with those big doe eyes of hers. They are a study in intelligent but lonely sadness. She – like Lestrade and I – has her own complex relationship with death. That's part of her aura of sadness. None of us – not even she – can help it. Death imbues her surroundings and what defense does she have? Determined optimism gets you only so far – death is relentless. Her only grace is that they arrive already dead. She is spared the burden of ever having been given the responsibility trying to save them. The weight of that will crush you if you let it.

"Hello, Molly." I follow her in. "Is Greg here? He asked me to meet him …"

"He's in the morgue. He's … been waiting for you." She speaks in fits and starts, and is both nervous and careful. She knows something.

"What's he after, then?" I ask. "He didn't seem to want Sherlock."

"No." She says and then presses her lips tight to stops talking. It occurs to me that she also has instructions from Lestrade. My hackles go up and I push down that hinky sensation that happens right before an ambush. I ground myself and reason that I am here to help in some capacity.

Molly enters the morgue and I follow. Lestrade is talking on the land line and taking down notes. He sees us and wraps up the call with some speed and almost no words but good-bye.

"Molly. Could you …" He says and lifts his chin a bit to prompt action without words. She follows his orders and wheels out a body. We take opposite sides of the table.

"Who's this, then?" I ask.

"The victim from yesterday."

Molly unzips the bag and it sounds overly loud in the ceramic tile and metal surfaces of the room's emptiness.

Lestrade continues. "Could you have a look?"

He is still being deliberately vague. There is something he is expecting from me. Or not. But whatever it is or isn't, he needs me to get there on my own. I trust him enough to play along.

"Alright." I oblige and step to the side. Molly reveals the face. It is a male – generally young. Unshaven and scruffy looking. Slightly sunken eyes and thinness at the face. There is an anonymous everyman look to him that makes him both vaguely familiar and unidentifiable. I take a step back and look at Lestrade.

"Don't recognize him."

"Keep going." He says and I turn back to the body. I go through the motions and as Molly reveals more of the body, I get a look at the neck. There is a deep lateral cut hitting right above the adam's apple. There are two smaller cuts on my side just below the ear. It is possible they were created in an initial struggle? The main damage, however, is deep and clean. It's a strong, definitive stroke. There was purpose and intent; this was no accident. There would have been no saving him. Then Molly pulls back the edges and reveals the chest. My eyes fall to a tattoo just over his heart. It is of a hackle – red feathers over white. There is fine script writing incorporated into the design. I don't need to read it to know what it says. Quo Fata Vocant. Wither the fates call.

I know exactly why I am here. He is a Northumberland Fusilier.

"Still don't recognize him?" Lestrade prompts me.

Molly avoids my gaze and fiddles with a fold in the body bag as I turn back to the body. The room is a cavern of silence but in my head the sounds bleed in and the volume cranks up. I blink and feel transported back in time to Camp Bastion. My blood pressure starts to rise and that hard knot twists up in the pit of my stomach. Images flicker in front of me. Faces overlay against the one in front of me without matching. The tattoo is vaguely familiar. Why do I know it? There's a mortar explosion and even in the safety of St Barts, I flinch. My muscles coil and I crush the impulse to duck and cover. I feel the base vibration of Chinook helicopter blades and then, onto rock music, loud laughter, beer bottles clanking and conversation that veers into an argument. I look at the face closely. There, on the chin and obscured by the stubble, a jagged three inch scar made by a broken beer bottle. In a reflex, I look at Lestrade; he has been watching me and waiting. His expression shifts. He knows I have it.

"Well?"

My heart is racing and I exhale slowly to calm myself before I answer. I stand away from the table and fall into an at-ease pose. "Steve Westmore."

"You knew him?"

"I stitched up his chin." It's an honest answer but I leave a lot of the detail out. Almost all of it, actually.

"That it?"

"Listen, Greg. I don't know every bloody soldier who served in Afghanistan." It comes out a little too angry but I can't help it. All at once my shoulder aches and I'm jittery. The random thought floats into my mind that I wish I had more money in my pocket than change. I want to get out of here.

"Sorry."

"I … so am I, Greg. Look. Can I go? You have your name."

He lets it go for a beat and then says, "I'll have a car take you home."

The charity offends me. I don't want to have to accept it in front of Molly who drops her gaze again but I have no choice. I will not make Mrs Hudson pay for another cab ride.

When I leave, I am not thinking about Steve Westmore but about who took the murderous swipe at him with a beer bottle during a heated drunken brawl on a dusty full moon in Helmand Province.

All at once I realize that I need to find Arty.

X x xxx xx x xxx x

Author's note: As ever, thank you for reading. Feel free to bookmark the story to get regular updates. I'd love you to comment on the story so far. Feedback is always welcome and can inspire story elements, new directions and generally getting on with the story. : D


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

I notice a flicker of lace curtain falling back into place when I get out of the police car. As I get to the bottom of the stairs at 221B, Mrs Hudson shimmers in.

"Everything alright, dear?"

"Yes. Perfectly fine." I say. "No worries."

It must be unconvincing because she crosses her arms and frowns. She does not like it when we lie to her. I change the subject. I tilt my head towards upstairs.

"How is he, then? Sobered up? Dressed?"

"Hardly." Her crossed arms lock in place. "I don't know what you and the Inspector did to him. You know he's not accustomed to drink. Having him out at all hours carousing like that. You two should know better. You're supposed to look after him."

Her accusation is sharp and I feel it as a wound. The morgue has me out of sorts with the day. I have seen too much death and I take it personally when I have to identify a corpse that I once knew as a good soldier. Compounding that gloom, I feel the pressure of Mycroft's impending deadline. Sixty thousand pounds is a lot of money.

I defend myself without thinking. "He was only drinking wine. And we weren't carousing!" Then I stop. It's important to remain in good standing with Mrs Hudson. "Greg and I did … watch him. He didn't really drink that much."

"Hmph. You wouldn't know it from the suffering he's doing." She waves her hand and dismisses me. She starts towards her rooms. "You are welcome to have him back. I've been up and down the stairs a dozen times since you've been gone … I'm near wore out from waiting on him hand and foot."

"Sherlock." I curse him with a whisper. Then I call after her. "I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson!"

Her comments give me a hint about what I am about to see when I walk in the apartment. He is largely unmoved and is stretched from one end of the couch to the other. His yet not dressed; the bathrobe is still half on. There's been a wholesale refreshing of liquids, the addition of another glass, two empty plates, and a saucer. Newspapers have been dripped onto the floor and form tents that dot the floor. The cool compress has been upgraded to a tea towel. Several pillows have been added to the scene. There's another blanket folded and perched on the back of the sofa.

"Alright, Sherlock." I announce. "Time to get up."

His arm is still artistically draped over his eyes. "The room is spinning."

"No. No, it's not." I say. I need to get him started on the wine search before another day completely disappears. "It's well past one. Daylight's burning."

"Not so loud." He slips down the cloth from his eyes to get a look at me.

"Sherlock, even on my very worst binges, I have never carried on like this."

"I am fragile." He says and slips the compress back into place.

"You." I pause for effect and snap up one of the newspapers, "Are an amateur."

"A what?" He sits up too fast and gets hit with a moment of honest dizziness. Gingerly, he lays back down.

"You heard me." I say. "Now. Go on and get dressed. You have work to do. I've sorted out at least two places where you can pick up some Petrus here in London. Maybe a third. We've not got many days left."

He presses the compress to his face. "I feel faint."

"My Aunt Fanny." This time I swipe up two newspapers at one go. They make a whip snap sound right by his ear. He winces at the noise. I do it again on a third to make the point. "Up and at'em, soldier."

He rolls himself to a sitting position and sighs dramatically.

"That's better." I say. "Now go and put on some clothes."

He cloaks himself in the plaid blanket and stays seated. His deliberate lethargy is without bounds; he simply will not be shifted.

"Sherlock!" I rouse him as I continue picking up his dirty dishes.

"What?"

"Sixty thousand pounds! Get a move on!"

He looks at me with a baleful expression. Innocent aesthete look number two. It has no effect on me.

"What did Lestrade want with you?"

"Nothing." I say and keep stacking the dishes. The sound of china hitting china clatters. If I give him any details at all, it will distract him utterly and be the perfect excuse to avoid the work at hand. An important thought returns to me with jarring suddenness. I need to find Arty.

"Hardly."

"What?"

"Lestrade is not a complete idiot."

"He'll be pleased to know you think so. I shall tell him next time we're out for a pint. Now. You. Trousers on. I have your afternoon mapped out."

"So who was it?"

"Who was what?" I roll my shoulders back and try to shut down a welling feeling of edginess. Sherlock defies my every effort to get him focused; he and I are settling into a battle of wills. It is not a position I enjoy. I lose more than I win and when I do win, it's not without effort on my part. It's exhausting. All at once, I am tired and out of sorts and, for once, I just want him to cooperate.

"Oh, John."

The patronizing tone gets under my skin. Without answering, I pick up the last glass and walk out of the room with my armload of dishes. The entire mess goes into the sink and topples. Nothing breaks. I lean against the side of the sink and take a breath. I do my best to create space between he and I so I can recentre myself.

"So?" The voice has followed me. I look up. He's at the doorway and has no sense of limits. "Who was it?"

I don't say anything.

"Right." He says, taking up the challenge. "Lestrade asked for you in particular and not me. So despite my clear superiority, you have some obvious advantage in this case. There must some aspect about this body that he associates with you. If Lestrade had a name for the victim, he would have simply mentioned it over the phone and save you the bother of going down to the morgue. One can safely assume, then, he has no name and needed you to physically see the body. Why would he ask for you in particular, then? What on a body would be particularly identifiable? A marking of some type – most likely a tattoo. It is quite common for men and women who serve to memorialize the event in body art. This tattoo was of some form or wording such that Lestrade considers you to be of most value in its interpretation or perhaps in the ultimate identification of the body." He lets the speech age a bit. My silence is more than he can bear. He is desperate for the feedback. "Am I right?"

I badly want to swear. This ridiculous intellectual pursuit is more important to him than half a year's worth of food and board. I need him to go out and do the job we were hired for and not stand around in his pajama bottoms guessing why Scotland Yard didn't desperately need him this one, unforgivable time. For the love of God, it's sixty thousand pounds! How the hell do I instill any sense of priority in this … this … crackpot?

"It's a tattoo, right?"

"Yes. It's a tattoo."

"Ha!" He sounds like he has won something. "And understanding on the relative proportion of men and women in the army, who was he, then? Did you know him?" He pauses and when I don't answer, he pays attention to my expression. He carries on with the slightest softness entering his voice. "Ah. You did. I am … sorry."

His conscious and what I believe is genuine attempt at empathy is enough to break me. I relent as much as I can.

"Sherlock. I … we … really need you to go find a dozen bottles of Petrus. So you can pass them on to your brother and he can give us sixty thousand pounds. I know this money means nothing to you but to me, it's important. Really, really important. We can buy food and pay rent and take taxi rides. I can even go out for a pint and buy a round or two and pretend like I belong to the human race. So can you just put on a pair of trousers and take the list I made for you and get going? As a personal favour? To me?"

It takes him a long while to work up to his answer. "Does this mean you are not going to tell me who the dead body is?"

It occurs to me to punch him but I don't. Instead I capitalize on the advantage he gives me. "The answer to that question will cost you two bottles of Petrus."

We stare out the final unspoken battle that lasts more than a minute. I refuse to relent.

"Fine." He concedes and trudges away, shrugging off his dressing gown.

The next twenty minutes are more activity on this project than I could have hoped for. He presents himself shaved, dressed and ready for duty. I give him the list of locations. With a minor debate of order, he then agrees on the sequence. He puts the addresses in his phone for reference and – in a miraculous turn of events and the culmination of five days' work – I walk him to our apartment door to ensure there is no deviation.

"While you're out, I'll do another round of calling and get set up for tomorrow." I put my hand on the door knob and twist, then sweep open the panel and Sherlock takes a step forward.

He halts and is completely blocked. "Who the devil are you and why are you in my way?"

In his path is a man in a trim white t-shirt, black leather coat and a buzz cut that accentuates a lean, sinewy face. He takes one look at me and stands up ramrod straight and gives me a crisp salute.

"Captain Watson. Sir."

"Rickie." I say and know another day of progress has just evaporated.

X x xxx xx x xxx x

Author's note: As ever, thank you for reading. Feel free to bookmark the story to get regular updates. I'd love you to comment on the story so far. Feedback is always welcome and can inspire story elements, new directions and generally getting on with the story. : D


	8. Chapter 8

There's a stand off at the door. No one moves. No one says anything for a long, threatening moment and then I fill the vacuum with a welcome, come in and sit down. Rickie is not the hugging type so he passes me by and saves some wear and tear on my shoulder.

The only thing remotely frivolous about Rickie is the 'ie' at the end of his name. Inside, he sits at attention. He keeps his jacket on and places his hands on his thighs. His whole body is self-contained stillness but it's not peaceful. He is coiled up and watchful; wound tight and primed to go off. He has never been laidback. He is even less so now.

"Rickie." I say and settle back. I overdo the casual hoping that it will set Rickie at ease. "It's good to see you. How are you?'

He is lean and the dense sinew at his wrists flexes and twitches. He takes his time assessing his state before answering. "I am ... alright, sir."

It's not much so I carry on. "And how is your wife? Your children are well?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sherlock lift his eyes to the ceiling. He rubs the tips of his fingers into forehead to disguise a glare in my direction. He exhales with just enough energy that I can hear it.

"No." Rickie says. "Yes. They're fine, I guess. We split up for good about a year ago. I … don't see the kids much."

"I am sorry to hear that."

"Been a rough couple of years." He says. "It's hard coming home. You know?"

I do know and nod with empathy.

"You are looking well, though." Even I think it's a banal comment but I'm not sure how else to proceed.

He holds up his left hand. There are two fingers missing. "Right as rain, now. Saved most of them. Would have died if it hadn't been for you."

It's not true. Not directly, anyway. But I avoid the discussion. Splitting hairs and over-humility won't get us anywhere.

Sherlock interrupts to get the conversation moving. "Why have you come to see us?"

"I am here to see the Captain."

There is a derisive grunt from Sherlock. "Remember, John, when I was a consulting detective and people used to call in to see with me? Those were the good ol' days." He says the last with derisive sincerity. Rickie doesn't quite follow so he remains silent.

"I ... you always said, Captain, that if we ever needed anything to look you up." He glances at Sherlock and then back to me, assessing his position. He is suddenly unsure of his welcome and he shifts forward as if to get up and retreat.

"It's alright. Don't mind him." I say and bounce my fingers up and down to get him to relax. "I meant what I said. How can I … we … help?"

"It's Arty. He's … AWOL. I need you to find him."

"AWOL? In what way?" It seems unfair to not tell him Arty has been here but I don't want to disclose it yet. There is something of his story I want to hear that would be tainted by the news. Steve Westmore is on a slab in the morgue. Who knows how he got there? From the corner of my eye, I see Sherlock steeple his hands, press his index fingers to his lips and wait.

Rickie take time to think before he begins. "Arty and I been friends since we were kids. We enlisted together. Served together. Even got injured and sent home together. When we came back, it … it was really hard for him. I mean. It's not easy, is it, sir? Getting injured and sent home. Then what? There's no bombs going off anymore except the ones in your dreams, right? Nobody understands except the ones who been there."

I nod and blink hard. His words cut deeply; they resonate on a visceral level.

"Hard for everybody else to adjust, too. I mean, I lost my wife and kids and went hard at the drink there for a while. Arty joined me and he's on pain killers for what's left of his leg. It's a bad mix. Then he got into street drugs and I was right there with him all the way. We started being bad company for each other and got into it deeper and deeper until we were both … well … both in a lot of trouble. I've cleaned up some. Arty is still a mess. He doesn't take care of himself … His leg. The pain is nonstop … I keep telling him to get help. He doesn't have a flat and sleeps rough most nights. I have a sofa at my place for him but ... confined spaces ... he doesn't do well since the explosion. Despite everything … I see him near every day. We're still best mates and I ... look after him because … he's … like my brother. You know?"

I nod again. "Yes. I know." There's a catch in my voice that forces a pause. I swallow hard before I carry on. "When did you see him last?"

"Day before yesterday. He doesn't have a job and has a hard time with money so I tried to get him some temporary work. I've got an in with the agency and have a bit of steady work at the moment. Comes and goes, of course. And low paying. But it's structure. And money so I don't have to beg. Both things that keep a man sober, I guess. Keeps me sober, at any rate. So I got Arty hooked up. He did two days of work and then he bolted. No one can tell me anything more than that. I've been looking all over for him. Usual haunts. Nothing. I'm worried about him. Not like him to drop out of sight. Not from me, anyway. Like I say … I look after him. If he was in his usual trouble, I know he'd tell me. Wouldn't be here if it ... it ... wasn't important."

"I understand."

"Can you help locate him?" His eyes well up. "Please? I don't care that he's a mess. It's not his fault. I have to look after him. He does the same for me when it counts. Even when it doesn't."

I can't keep this from him any longer. I take a breath and then say, "Arty was here yesterday."

Rickie's whole body twists up into a coiled spring. He blinks and looks around as if he might still be here. "Really?" His surprise sounds genuine.

In the muffled confines of Sherlock's pocket, his phone starts ringing. Hardly paying attention, he pulls it out and then shuts off the ringer and sends the call to voice mail.

"Is he ok? How was he? What did he say? Why was he here?" He runs a hand through his hair. "He must really be in trouble. Shit." He looks up and then to Sherlock and back to me with some contrition. "Sorry, sir."

"He seemed ... high strung. Disoriented."

It is not thirty seconds later and the phone rings again. Sherlock has it in his hand still. He barely gives the call display a glance and sends a second call to voice mail.

"Meds. He needs his meds. I keep telling him to take them but he always forgets. If he'd agree to share my place ... I could ... there's my couch he can bunk on. It's not much but ... shit. Shit!" He opens and closes his hands – gnarled fingers and all – as if he is trying to contain his anxiety.

On the desk beside me, my phone vibrates and the screen lights up. Before I can read the number, Sherlock stretches over and sends it to voice mail. He lifts his face and gives me a staged smile. I let it go. The damage has been done.

Rickie leans forward and asks, "What did he say?"

"He said only that he was in trouble. He had difficulty focusing on our conversation. He was agitated."

"He gets like that. It's worse when he forgets his meds. And if he's had a couple drinks … "

Downstairs, I hear Mrs Hudson's land line ring three times and then stop.

"Could he have been on something?"

"Yeah. Sure. I don't know what happened but … something has him scared. You have to understand … he's off but he doesn't do this. He trusts me. You know?"

There's a soft knock at our door and Mrs Hudson pokes her head through the door with a "Yoo hoo!"

"Sorry to disturb you. Dr Watson? There's a call for you downstairs. Says it's terribly important."

"What? Me? Who is it?"

"Didn't say. A woman. Lovely voice. Not anyone I know." She sounds interested and waits for me to excuse myself.

Downstairs, I put the receiver to my ear and say, "Hello?"

"He took your phone, didn't he?" It's Mycroft. He does not sound happy.

I don't know how to answer the question. "What do you want? I'm … in the middle of something."

"Are you indeed, Dr Watson? Well then. I shall not keep you a moment more than necessary for my humble enquiry." He serves me sarcasm and superiority in equal measures. "How many bottles of Petrus have you obtained?"

"How many?"

"Yes. How many bottles? You need only to count to twelve." When I fail to answer he continued, "Twelve. That's all your fingers and then two more."

"Very funny…"

"I see. None at all, then? I must say I am disappointed. I would have expected more progress from the two of you. This is day five. One of you purports to be a passable detective of sorts."

"Listen. The deadline is still two weeks away. There's lots of time."

"Clearly, you do not have any idea what you are talking about Dr Watson. This wine is rare. Very, very rare."

"Yes." I say. "I understand that. I *have * googled it."

"Your research has been utterly comprehensive, then." He pauses. "My deepest apologies for doubting you, Dr Watson. You must be a veritable expert by now."

"No need to be shirty. I am doing my best."

"Your best is not near good enough, Dr Watson. I need twelve bottles of Petrus. In my possession. Fifteen days from now there will be a dinner of unspeakable importance. The Eastern Bloc will eviscerate us as a nation and crush our economy if there is no Petrus. I can hardly overstate the consequences. Do I make myself clear?"

"You've made your point, yes."

"I shall accept for the moment that you have been duly reminded. Now please send regards to my brother and tell him to get a bloody move on. Remind him I do have exacting methods of persuasion if it comes to that. This applies to you as well."

He hangs up before I can give him a retort. I stand there with the phone still to my ear and give dead air my scathing opinion.

Close by, a throat clears with a feminine meekness. I look up.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson."

She gives me a sad look, "A shame. I though she sounded lovely on the phone."

When I arrive upstairs, Sherlock and Rickie are standing at the door. They stop talking and I feel like I have interrupted something.

"Captain. I have to go. Work." He says.

"Wait. Here's my card." I dig out one from my back pocket and hand it over. I write down his mobile number on the back of another of my cards and keep it. "Call me any time. We will let you know if we make any progress."

"Thank you, sir." He nods and doesn't smile. "Thank you. I'm … I'm a little short on cash at the moment. Payday is next week …" He drifts off.

"I understand." I say. "We can manage without money."

Sherlock looks at me with large eyes and arched eyebrows. He is not impressed at the sudden swing of my sliding economic scale but I will defend my position. Rickie and Arty are veterans; they have long since earned their credit.

After Rickie leaves, I stare at the back of the door, thinking about Arty and what might have become of him. When I turn around, he is sitting in his chair with the symmetry and stillness of a statue, staring at me without blinking.

"What are you not telling me?"

"Hmm?"

"What are you not telling me?"

"Oh." I say. "Right. It was your brother. He wants you to get a move on."

"Not about the phone call. I repeat. What are you not telling me?"

"What?"

"John, if you insist on being coy about this, I will have no choice but to abandon the Petrus entirely until my curiosity is completely satiated."

I give him a frown.

His eyes close to slits. "Two can play at this game."

X x xxx xx x xxx x

Author's note: As ever, thank you for reading. Feel free to bookmark the story to get regular updates. I'd love you to comment on the story so far. Feedback is always welcome and can inspire story elements, new directions and generally getting on with the story. : D


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

Stalemate is a curious battlefield position.

On the one hand, you haven't lost. On the other, you haven't won, either. Sherlock and I can go round and round on this – me withholding information to force him to work on the Petrus and then he refusing to work on the Petrus to extort information from me. By the way he's settled into his stare, I consider my chances of dodging the issues negligible. He's dug a deep trench and is going to lay siege to me until I capitulate. Signaling defeat, I slump into the chair opposite him and exhale loudly.

"I leave the room for three minutes and now you're full of questions. Alright." I wave a hand. "Have at it."

"I was full of questions well before this. I have simply been a model of restraint and resisted asking since you are apparently the lead investigator. However, when you left, I used the opportunity to put several pointed questions to our guest. Rickie confirmed my suspicions and now insist on you filling in the rest of the blanks of this case. Lestrade's body. What of it?"

"Oh? And what did Rickie say exactly in those three minutes that has you so completely changed?"

Sherlock tilts his head and does a lopsided shrug. "For one, Arty has a temper."

"That's not news. I am surprised you actually needed to ask. You met him and couldn't tell that?"

"He has a temper. A bad one. Rickie – is it really Rickie? - God the ignominy of it. I should insist on being called Richard – still – " He rolls his rs when he says the name again, "Rickie said the last time he saw him, Arty was talking about having seen a fellow soldier who is also home from Afghanistan. There was apparently a good deal of bad blood between them. Now. Arty comes to us – you – disoriented and insisting he did not do 'it' where the 'it' in question goes entirely and ominously unexplained. Connect this with the most curious call from our dear Inspector regarding a dead body that only you can assist with. Only you? Highly unlikely circumstances given he could have asked for me. Still … less than twenty-four hours later, Rickie shows up concerned about Arty's whereabouts. It does not take a genius, John, to work out that it's all connected. The only element I am not clear on is what happened at the morgue since I was not personally invited to attend. I can surmise but it would be useful to have a first hand report. So. Details please. If it is not too much trouble!"

By the time he gets to the end of it, he is insulting and it irks me. I answer with a sharpness made worse by hunger.

"The body in the morgue is Steve Westomore. He has a tattoo of a hackle – the Northumberland insignia. Greg took a chance I would recognize him. I gave him the name but nothing more. And yes – the three of them knew each other. Steve and Arty never got on. One night, Arty got drunk and nearly killed him once in a bar fight that was a full on brawl by the time it all ended. More casualties in that fight alone than two weeks of battlefield action."

"What was the nature of the dispute?"

"Steve stored some munitions carelessly. The whole area was unsafe and it partially detonated. Arty trusted that Steve had done things properly and accidentally nearly blew himself to kingdom come. There were other things – personality clashes - but that was the defining moment. Arty has a pretty … broad … sense of what constitutes military obedience and order. Not that many rules he considers unbreakable. Well. Except those dealing with explosives. Those are immutable. After the explosion, Arty couldn't trust Steve any more. He hated him after that."

"How did Steve die?"

"Slit throat clean across."

"Arty capable of it?"

"Absolutely. And knowing Arty, if he was living on the streets, he'd have more than one way to protect himself. He always carried a good utility knife when I knew him. Wouldn't think he'd be anywhere without it."

"You think he did it?"

I don't answer immediately. After focusing on a middle space, I look at Sherlock. He is waiting for me to pass judgment.

"Well?" He prods. "Do you?"

"No." I say finally.

"Why not?"

Even as the words leave my mouth, I know the argument will be almost without merit to Sherlock. "Because he said so."

X x xxx xx x xxx x

I'll say this much for Sherlock. When he finally gets his way, he can be miraculously cooperative. With his curiosity sated, he willingly agrees to start the hunt for Petrus so the next day proves to be unexpectedly productive.

After being shoved out the door at a decent hour, Sherlock not only comes back with four bottles of Petrus but he has leads on two more. For my part, I line up another five. If it all turns out, we will have eleven bottles of Petrus in fairly short order. The development delights me. I can almost picture the bank balance readout.

"I told you all it would take is just a bit of effort," I tell him. "This is like falling off a log for you." I clear away some space and stack the bottles on their sides on the kitchen sideboard. Standing back, I realize I'm looking at thousands of pounds of precious vintage. I look around for somewhere less mundane and more secure to store the bottles and see nothing. The end bottle shifts. I stop it before it rolls far and then shove a sugar canister to serve as a book end. I watch for a few moments and then throw a tea towel over the treasures and wander to my habitual chair.

"I'm proud of you." I say. I mean it.

"Your praise is nothing I aspire to." He says and uncoils on the sofa.

"Still." I say, genuinely pleased. "Today has been progress."

"My brother will be over the moon."

"Ah. No." I correct him. "Mycroft will be other the moon when he has twelve bottles. You only have four."

"Such pessimism. And after all that esprit de corps you just displayed."

"I thought you said you don't aspire to my praise."

"I thought I had it."

I sigh. The argument isn't worth it and for him, it's a reflex like scratching. "Well. I've made progress of my own today. Lined up another five."

"Oh? Not Brixton again, is it? I am stunned they even understand what wine is, let alone have a bottle of the best in their environs. There is no accounting for taste."

"No. Not Brixton." I pause, giving a bit of drama to the announcement. Then I reveal it with enthusiasm since I am not without pangs of jealously. "Paris."

He flicks his head up. "Paris? France?"

"Wha-? Yes. Of course. Paris, France. What other Paris is there?"

He deflates back into position. "I hate Paris."

"You hate Paris?"

"French people everywhere. Ridiculous. There's absolutely nothing to do there."

"Nothing to do-?! Well. I'm sorry you feel that way, Sherlock. You better pack a book then. You'll be there for three days."

X xxxx xxxx x

When I awake and open my eyes, I can't see. It is temporarily disorienting. I roll to my side and blink and then everything comes into focus. I close my eyes and nestle under the covers for a moment. I pay attention to the deep sense of contentment that envelops me. It is a sunny morning in London and the apartment is silent.

I get up early and make tea and ease into the morning, treating myself to eggs and an extra slice of toast with liberal dollops of jam knowing I will be able to finish it all in uninterrupted peace. In truth, I am almost always up earlier than Sherlock and it is no more quiet now than when he lapses into one of his extended silences. Still – when he's gone, there is not only quiet but also a sense of tranquility and restfulness. There is none of that undercurrent of tension that he creates purely by his presence. It is an aura he has; if there is no chaos, he creates it. While I cannot argue I don't thrive on living close to the whirling vortex, it is nice to have a day or two of peace without the chronic whirling activity of Captain Mayhem. A vacation from Sherlock now and then is restorative.

With breakfast done, I get out for my papers early. The sun is sensational and after seeming weeks of rain and cold, it is a relief. When I get pack, I feel revitalized and focused. There's a plan for the rest of the day to work on the Petrus leads that I know will be fruitful and possibly extend Sherlock's stay in Paris by a day or so, but first I open the curtains wide and steal Sherlock's place on the sofa. I fan out the papers before me on the table, pick the one with the most lurid front and flip over the first page.

The phone rings.

I let the first one go without looking at my phone. 221B was – until a moment ago – an oasis of peace. If I ignore the phone, the ringing will eventually stop and calm will be restored. I am able to let two more rings go by before the curiosity is too much. I decide it won't hurt to look. I am not actually obliged to answer.

As another ring starts, I look at the display. The name puts me in a moral dilemma. The Holmes brothers can be justifiably ignored. Lestrade can not. Still, it takes me one more ring before I pick up.

"Hello?"

"John. It's me. You busy? He asks.

I look around me and can feel the mirage of comfort and peace shimmer away. All at once, I want to hang up and recapture this perfect morning. "I am not without things to do."

He does not acknowledge the hint. "Want to come down to the morgue?"

"Sherlock is out of town."

"Didn't call him, did I."

"Me? Again? What's happened? Another body?" I start scanning the headlines and flipping through pages for hints. I go through four papers in rapid succession with no result.

He assumes his cagey-as-a-fox, nothing-but-questions style. "Will you come?"

I stare at the edge of the table and the way the sun beams down on the wood and gives it a rich warm glow. I am warm and comfortable and it's quiet and I could get on with my day and make most satisfactory progress. Lestrade's voice is in my ear repeating the question. Inwardly, I surrender. I know the answer I will give. Still … it will be a sacrifice of uncommon comforts.

"Fine."

"Car should be there right about now." He says. His invitation was never optional and my answer was never in any doubt. This was all formality.

"You son…" I start in on him but he hangs up.

X x xxx xx x xxx x

As I walk into St Barts, it occurs to me that I should make a requisition for my own swipe card. I'm here often enough that I should draw a paycheck as part time medical examiner. I carry on through the second set of doors and see everyone is at their usual posts. I pass the front door security guard, then down the hall to meet Molly and follow her until I am finally through the lab and into the morgue where Lestrade is waiting by the covered body. I'm still not pleased at the way he just assumed I'd come. I can't get it out of my voice so when I start talking, it's sharp and lacks niceties. Up until his call, I had been having such a nice morning. No. More than that … the best morning I've had in years.

I cross the floor and stop at the foot of the slab before I address him. "What?"

"There's another body I want you to take a look at."

"Why me?"

"Molly?" He ignores both my tone and my complaint. She unzips the bag and reveals the face. I lean over. I see the chin first. The unshaven state means it's a male. I get closer. I don't recognize the face. He's in his late teens. Or perhaps early twenties? He is one of those types that doesn't look any age at all except young. As I take up information, Molly continues to expose the body. She doesn't have to go far until I get to cause of death. I tilt my head to get a proper view and lean forward for another perspective. Then I look up at Greg sharply.

"Well?" He says.

"You have your own experts. What do you need me for?"

"Does it look familiar?"

"What? The wound or the corpse?"

"Both."

"Neck sliced open just like the last one. This one is deeper, cleaner. Maybe it was a bigger surprise. Or an imbalance in … sizes." I hasten over the thought and banish Arty from my mind. With his size, he would have completely overpowered this one. "Could be the one previous to this had better combat skills." I bite my tongue, angry that I have made an oblique suggestion about the case.

"So you don't recognize him?"

I take another long look at the face. Again, the youth strikes me. He is thinnish around the jowl and that make the cheekbones more pronounced. There's a deep scar above his left eye that's fresh enough that I can still see the tiny scabs where the sutures have been removed. There's a tattoo on his chest. It looks like something out of a comic book. The character is familiar to me but I can't place it. Then, of course, there is the gaping wound at his neck. It's deep enough that all the muscles and tendons and even the windpipe was severed in a single, clean swipe. In my mind's eye, I can see it happen. Fast. Violent. Decisive. He never had a chance.

"No." I say finally. "I don't recognize him."

"Not one of your army men?"

"Never seen him before in my life." I say. This seems to perplex him and he frowns. He was expecting more from me.

"Who is he?"

"Not a clue. No id. Just a pack of cigarettes and a five pound note in his pocket."

"When and where did it happen?"

"Last night. Another back alley. Like the last one but about five kilometers away. I was hoping he was one of yours. Would give us some kind of connection. Well … more of a connection than mechanism of death."

"Can I go?"

"Yeah." He says, deflated. "Alright. You sure you don't recognize him?"

"Quite sure." I give him a flat stare and convince him I have no further thoughts on the matter. He waves a hand and I leave before he can ask me any more questions.

As I make my way to the front doors, I realize once again that I really need to find Arty.

X x xxx xx x xxx x

Author's note: As ever, thank you for reading. Feel free to bookmark the story to get regular updates. I'd love you to comment on the story so far. Feedback is always welcome and can inspire story elements, new directions and generally getting on with the story. : D


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

I get back to the apartment and am at a bit of an quandary about how to proceed with Arty. I need to be careful; to neither scare him nor give anyone any indication that he might be involved in the recent deaths. Without a clear direction on that front, I decide to work on the Petrus until lunch and then start on finding Arty in the afternoon. Besides, getting wine vendor names to Sherlock as quickly as possible so he can follow up makes the most sense. I pick up my work half done from the day previous and calling around asking questions is easily done and productive. I'm starting to know what to ask for and the follow up enquiries are key to getting leads. There's a rhythm I fall into. I make progress. An hour and a half later, I am still on our land line wrapping up another call to yet another wine broker when my mobile phone pings. As I pick up the device, I keep talking and scroll to the text and read.

BORED

I keep up my end of the phone conversation with the sommelier. There may or may not be a bottle in stock. She has asked for me to hold while she looks it up on her system. I am already seasoned enough at this to know that anyone who has a bottle of Petrus on hand knows it without having to check their inventory. I am being stalled under the guise of a "let me see what we have". When it inevitably turns out to be negative on the Petrus, I will be offered a remarkably specific number of alternatives – all miraculously – on hand. On my mobile, I type back.

GET BACK TO WORK

In the meantime, the woman on the other end follows the script to the letter. I waive her offers and I insist only on her giving me another contact for Petrus. She gives me two. When she starts rattling off addresses and numbers and I abandon my mobile for pen and paper. While I'm writing, I get two more pings. I hang up with the sommelier and catch up.

AN HOUR AND A HALF UNTIL NEXT APPT

Then …

STILL THERE?

I type back. WAS ON PHONE. ANY LUCK?

There's hardly a pause. He's waiting for me. ONE BOTTLE IN HAND. SECOND ONE WAS PLONK. REMARKABLY POOR STORAGE FACILITIES CONSIDERING.

I update him. ARRANGED FOR ANOTHER VISIT JUST OUTSIDE CITY

AM I CONDEMNED TO NEVER LEAVE PARIS?

QUIT COMPLAINING

BORED

GO TO THE LOUVRE

NOTHING TO SEE THERE

I have just the stinging retort for him that is interrupted by an incoming call. The mobile vibrates and rings. Number unknown.

"Hello?"

"Hello." The voice is smooth and female. If it was a cat, there would be purring. "Doctor Watson?" She says my name slowly, as if she is savoring it. Her tone makes my spine tingle.

"Yes. Speaking." I feel myself smiling. I want to say I know who is calling but I don't quite. I wish I did.

"This is Julia. Julia Wainright."

Of course. My smile stays. This interruption is a delight.

She goes on before I can acknowledge her. "From Pavel's? We met a couple of days ago."

"Yes. Yes. Of course." I sit up and use the desk to support an interested pose. "I remember. How are you?"

"I am wondering if you and Mr Holmes could come to Pavel's." Listening to her is like having honey dripped into my ears. I could do this all day. I am listening to what she is saying but only just. "There's … been an incident."

"What? Yes. Of course. Well. I can. Sherlock – Mr Holmes – is out of town on business. I'll be happy to come. What's happened? Are you alright?" I flip up a new page of my book and start making notes.

"I am perfectly fine." She says and then her voice takes on a serious timbre. "I'm calling about one of our staff. You might think it unimportant. But it's one of our dishwashers."

"Yes? What about him?"

"He's dead."

X xx xxx xx xxx x x

It nearly ruins me but I have to ask Mrs Hudson for more yet another cab fare to get to Pavel's. I could take alternate transport, I suppose, but this is faster and I still need to make start on locating Arty before day's end. While I'm in the cab, I pick up the stream of texts from Sherlock.

STILL BORED

WHAT ELSE IS THERE TO DO IN PARIS

ARE YOU IGNORING ME

YOU ARE STILL ON THE PHONE

HANG UP

JOHN? YOU THERE?

I scroll to the end and pick up the conversation before he pings again. JULIA CALLED.

DO TELL.

Even in text form without facial expressions or tone of voice, I get all the subliminal messages.

NOT LIKE THAT. SOMETHING'S HAPPENED.

WHAT? TELL ME. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. HAVE I NOT BEEN CLEAR IN MY EXPRESSION OF ABJECT BOREDOM IN THIS CITY OF DESPAIR AND DESOLATION?

PARIS IS THE CITY OF LOVE

YOU ARGUE MY POINT EXACTLY. PAVEL'S. WHAT HAPPENED?

ON MY WAY NOW. DISHWASHER DIED.

I wait for a response and get none. I am certain that relating the appearance of a corpse is enough for him to keep communicating but there is nothing.

SHERLOCK?

I AM ASSUMING YOU MEAN AN INDIVIDUAL AND NOT A MECHANICAL DEVICE.

YES.

INTERESTING. It's a one word text but in my mind, I hear it being said slowly with much vocal inflection.

ALSO – LESTRADE CALLED ME DOWN TO THE MORGUE AGAIN

AGAIN? ANOTHER ONE OF YOUR FUSELIERS?

THEY ARE NOT **MY** FUSELIERS. AND NO. A YOUNG MAN. DIDN'T RECOGNIZE. SAME CAUSE OF DEATH.

INTERESTING

STOP SAYING THAT. THINK I NEED TO FIND ARTY

I CONCUR

ANY HINTS

GO UNDERCOVER AS HOMELESS

YOU SERIOUS?

YOU HAVE THE WARDROBE FOR IT

YOU ARE NO HELP AT ALL

The driver stops and I look up. I am outside Pavel's. I tell Sherlock, put my phone away and get out.

xx xxxx x x xxx x xxx x xx x

Without the burden of Sherlock's monomania, I get my chance to engage in protracted social niceties and finally get to accept the invitation to sit with Julia Wainwright by the hearth. The fire has just been lit and I wonder if it has been done for me in particular. Unlikely, I suspect but I chose to believe otherwise. Certainly, Julia makes no argument to the contrary. Before she sits, she sees to several small comforts – my coat removed and set aside, an offer of beverage that I refuse and otherwise attends to me as if I am the only man left on earth. There are four chairs and we have taken the two nearest the fire place. It's cosy, intimate and when she does finally take a place opposite me, she gives the hem of her skirt a tiny adjustment with the kick of her knee. When she's finished, she looks like a portrait painting by a master.

"How are you getting on with the Petrus?" She begins with the most relevant of questions. "Has Kurt been of assistance?"

"Bit of a slow start but we are making progress. Kurt gave me a lead that got things started." I say. "We have four so far. And at least one more on the way."

"I don't envy you the task. Do you think you'll make the deadline? Mr Holmes' staff has been here on and off for six months planning this dinner. These past few weeks we have been in daily contact. I admire his ability to remain calm about it as the deadline looms and so much is left undetermined. So much depends on this event going smoothly."

"I gather that." I say and for the first time, take Mycroft's claim of the world depending on this Petrus more seriously. "Every day the outlook improves." I admit. It is my way of being optimistic without jinxing ourselves. She nods and I use the pause to change topics. "So." I say, opening my notebook out to record any salient details. "Before we get started, can I ask why aren't you talking to the police about this?"

She nods. "In this business … discretion … is critical. You and Mr Holmes are … experts without obligations. The law means something … less stringent … to you. Besides, you are already working here on another matter and while I sincerely doubt the two are related, I thought it best to provide you with the information first and then we can decide together what to do next. Some of our clientele and … friends and neighbors … are … uneasy … when the community police make an appearance. "

It takes me time to recover from the way she says the word "together". Processing the rest of what she said happens at a bit of a lag, then I get going again.

"You think the two are unrelated then."

"Of course. How could they be otherwise? One relates to the most exclusive and potentially explosive political dinner of the decade. And the other is the death of a dishwasher. He was a temporary employee. He was here less than a week."

"His name?"

"Steve Westmore."

I keep my expression bland and hide in the action of writing down the name. I stare at what I have written and remember his face the last time I saw it. Then I look up and try to get rid of the ghost image of him superimposed on her. I blink and the image remains. I push on with the obvious.

"Tell me what happened."

"There is very little to tell, really. Dishwashing is a hard, thankless job that pays next to nothing. Some take the job with aspirations of moving up in the kitchen. Others are just transient workers looking for a job."

"But as you say – this place is exclusive. Can you not hire permanent staff?"

"It is hard, thankless work. Pay is poor. The turnover is high. High enough that it's not worth the time it takes to hire. So we have a placement service who screens and sends us suitable candidates. Steve was a quiet sort. Hard worker. I am not trying to be insulting when I say he had an inclination for it. Extremely tidy. Exacting. Hustled. I had thought he just might have stayed. His is a particular loss … "

"But then …"

"Then he failed to show up for work. Then the placement service called this morning and asked about him. They had seen his name in the papers and wondered if we knew what had happened. It took us by surprise as well. So here we are, Doctor Watson. Have you any suggestions?"

"Well. I think you should call the police. They will be interested in any details related to their investigation. I … I believe I can help and make the call for you, if you'd like. Also – I'd like to take a look around again."

We linger at the fire and I take down a few more details and then I have to admit our conversation has run it course and then some. It is time to revisit the heart of Pavel's. We take the same trip back through the dining room into the kitchen. When the doors swings open, the same dense steam of flavour envelope me. I have to stop and inhale before I can continue. I just want to nick a taste of something and see if the food is just as sublime.

Chef Pavel notices me and bows slightly. We go through the routine of exchanging Russian greetings again. I am even able to use different vocabulary this time around and it catches the eye of more than one of the kitchen staff. One of the sous chefs stops and looks and gets a blast of steam for his lapse of attention at the stove. I follow Julia to the back of the kitchen and escape any need to carry on further conversation. I have officially run out of phrasebook expressions.

At the back, Julia shows me in great detail the operations of the sinks and how the dishwashing happens. Power wash attachments hang from metal pipes plumbed high. Slightly blocking off the area are wheeled metal stacking for the cooking utensils and pans, then shelvings for plates and bins for cutlery. There are also industrial sized washers that cover some of the generic bulk but would be slower than humans. I pick up one of the plates and turn it over. I know next to nothing about china but I even I recognize the name as very high end. The plate is thin and elegant; a human hand would be better served washing this than a dishwasher. Putting the plate back in the stack, I stand looking at the sink and imagine what it would be like to do this work for a shift. The kitchen is hot and steamy and loud and there are pressures of deadlines. Instantly, I understand why there is turnover. Behind me the sounds of a kitchen gearing up for service – the sounds of pans and searing heat, conversation and orders, ovens opening and closing, food being prepped – peeled and sliced and chopped. This would not be rewarding work if one was at the bottom of the food chain.

I look to the side and see the door that is propped open with a folded wedge of cardboard that has taken on the form of the doorframe.

"What's out there?"

Julia takes hold of the cardboard so it does not drop and pushes open the door. She beckons me and explains. "We are not allowed to smoke in the kitchen. There's no such thing as a coffee break in the kitchen – at least not until after service so anyone who wants a smoke goes out here." She opens the door wider and I step out into the alley. There's a large slightly rusty can full of cigarette butts and three crates in a rough semi-circle. There is a make-shift bench made of three upturned plastic drums and a single piece of board. The crudeness of it surprises me and feels like a glimpse below stairs. At the end, there is a metal gate and I point to it.

"Where does that go?"

"Into a common walkway and then onto the street."

"Those gates locked then?"

"Heavens no." She smiles. "Deliveries come at all hours. They come right up to the door. Hand bombed crates. Wheeled dollies. Sometimes just a small box. We don't have time to interrupt service."

I am collecting the information out of habit. I know the body was not found particularly close by. Still – a lay of the land is useful to have. Back inside, we retreat through the kitchen and dining room to the fire but the spell is broken and we both no there is no excuse we can make to resume our wing backs by the fire. I ask some final questions about friends Steve may have had. She is aware of no one he was close to. He was – she reiterates – everything they want in a dishwasher; punctual, obedient and hard working. He was no trouble and caused none. After a brief conversation, I give her my recommendation.

"I think you would be well advised to contact the Police. They are investigating this death and I'm sure giving them any information you have would save them time. Might lead to a break in the case. I'm happy to make the call for you if you'd like." I have my own version of repetition.

She agrees and it's easy enough done. When Lestrade picks up the phone, all I say is … "Busy?"

X xxx xx x x xx xxxx x x

By the time I get back to the apartment, it's late afternoon and on the cusp of evening. Sherlock reports that he has another bottle in hand and his texts are full of complaints about the food, transportation and entertainment of Paris. In desperation, I turn off my phone to stop the constant pings after telling him he has the cultural sophistication of a petrified lizard.

I get my coat off and put water in the kettle and before I have a chance to put it on, there's a knock at the door.

When I open the door, it takes me a beat.

"Leslie?" I say.

She stands stock still and blinks at me. Her face is unwashed. Her eyes are sunken and bloodshot. Her hair is slightly askance – as if she has pulled a hat off and forgotten that bit of grooming to straighten out her fringe. Her lips are pressed thin and she cradles her elbows with her palms. Her arms are guarding her middle as if as a shield.

For a moment, she doesn't say anything. Then she gives me just one word. "Hey."

"Come in." I open the door wider for her. It takes her a few beats before she moves and the first step across the threshold is cautious, as if she is walking into a minefield. I usher her into the sitting room. She takes her time and follows me slowly. She takes in the surroundings like tourists enter the Sistine Chapel – looking up, down and around and then over again.

"Can I get you anything? A cup of tea? A sandwich?" She looks hungry – and beyond that – exhausted. She is pale and the dark circles are chronic. She never gets enough sleep or the right food to eat; likely both.

She shakes her head to refuse. It's a crisp tight movement, as if she is too afraid to do or say more. When I offer her a place to sit, she chooses the sofa and perches on the very edge and the end closest to the door, as if she does needs an escape route and no longer wants to stay. I bring a chair over and sit opposite her. I am close but don't block her in to give her the space she needs.

"How can I help?"

She is still looking all around and everywhere and when I speak, it interrupts her and she realized where she is. She folds over a bit and studies me before she answers, as if to assess my trustworthiness. I wait and let her proceed at her own speed. She rocks back and forth a couple of times and mashes her lips as if she is trying to work up the ability to speak. I remain still and say nothing and believe she will get to it in her own time. The room is quiet and when she inhales it's soft but swift and breaks the silence.

"Tim's gone."

I take my time responding. "Tim?"

"Tim." She repeats the name. "My fella."

"Ah. Your boyfriend." I say. I think about all the questions I want to ask and how best to ask them so she doesn't bolt. I decide to not ask any of them. "Oh?"

"Day before last." She blinks and she tears up. "Not like him to do this. Never done it before."

"How long have you two …"

She cuts me off with an answer, "Three years."

It's my turn to blink. She hardly looks old enough. Still. It is the way of the world. I wonder if this means she's been on the streets this long. Before I can ask another question, she fills in the silence.

"Three years. He don't just up and go. He don't ever. He wouldn't. We're together." She leans forward again and holds her middle. With a small, nervous motion, she begins to rock back and forth as if she might get up but doesn't quite. She sniffs and sounds in need of a Kleenex. I get up and retrieve a box from the desk and set it on the table in front of her. I motion for her to help her self but she looks at me as if I have just set out a trap for her. A frown creases her brown.

"When did you realize he had … gone?"

"Night. He always comes back at night. Usually has a bit of money from the day. Odd jobs. The like. Then we eat. He didn't …" she blinks and hits the watershed moment. It takes her a while to finish. "Didn't come … back." Big globby tears roll down her cheeks and she sniffs again and then overcomes the fear of kindness and takes two Kleenex and begins to smear and mop. She stops the tears quickly and stuffs all the emotion back inside. Crushing the Kleenex tighter and tighter and around and around, she moulds it into a wad and returns to holding herself and rocking. Distracted, she reaches up for her necklace and holds onto the pendant as if it is a talisman of comfort. The bottom of it flicks in the light.

"Could he have just slept over at friends? Maybe had a bit too much to drink?" Young men can be notoriously distracted; this is a reasonable explanation. I want the story to unfold so that there is a perfectly unremarkable solution.

"He don't drink. And … And … he wouldn't leave me." She says it again with such emphasis. The lamp light catches the water in her eyes and she seems to shimmer and shiver in the golden glow. Another large tear rolls down her cheek. She opens her mouth and tries to speak but there's nothing. Her whole demeanour is crumbling and she is doing everything she can to fight it and contain herself. She is willing herself to remain strong but she is losing. She needs to express it.

"Leslie?" I say her name softly, almost as a whisper. I know just what to say to ease her suffering. Her eyes flick up to me and she moves her hands to her belly and all at once, I realize what she is about to tell me. I need her to say it instead of me announcing it. I need to give her the dignity to tell me her secret of her own accord. "Tell me."

She shuts her eyes, pushing out more tears. She is shivering and red faced. Her nose is running and her face is a stream. "I'm … pregnant." Getting the final word out is the trigger. She folds into herself and begins to sob. By the time I get to her side, she is inconsolable and almost convulsing from the release of emotion. I touch her shoulder and move my hand up to her neck and then partially down her back in comfort. Her clothes are thinner than they look and I can feel her individual ribs and the spaces between. She bone and sinew, hardly any muscle. It's like stroking a bird. She is overwrought and I can feel her body radiate heat. She is burning and in a reflex, I check her forehead. Also hot. Dry. I sit down beside her. She seems to know that I have done so and she responds by turning to me and dropping her head against my shoulder.

I put my arms around her and let her weep.

X x x xxxx x x xx x xx x xxxxxx x x x

My phone.

I've had my mobile turned off for hours and only realize it when I get home.

The entire evening has been a hard battle to get Leslie to accept help. I have to use every physician wile I have to get her to a hospital emergency room. I remind her that she trusted me enough to tell me what is wrong and having done so, really does want the help. I talk about her health and her baby's health. What would Tim want? I invoke Sherlock without success; his absent opinion has no sway. I eventually win by telling her quite bluntly that if she refuses the care, I will bundle her into a blanket and carry her there myself because I am not in the habit of having patients refuse me. We lock into a stare and she tries to determine if I am bluffing. It might be the sudden contrast in my demeanor that wins her over; she might not have expected to encounter a direct order. People who refuse help the hardest are often those who need it most.

From that point on, she refuses to be separated from me. When she gets direction from the nurse, she looks to me first for approval and I give it and only then does she agree. The same happens when the obstetrician arrives. He gives the preamble and – determining I am not the father – asks me to leave. She refuses to let me leave during the examination and holds my hand so tightly her whole hand goes white from the effort. I know she is not in any pain; she is afraid – afraid of the unknown, of being alone, of the future. I understand the fear more that she can possibly know and that is why I stay with her. For these few intense hours of examination and waiting for test results, I am all that she has in the world – a parent, a partner, a friend. She hangs onto me for dear life and I do nothing to separate myself from her. I understand I am all she has. When the obstetrician returns, he gives her the news that she is general well but underweight. The baby is safe. But she is young and homeless and needs to get off the streets. He looks to me and I nod and take on the responsibility for seeing to it.

She refuses to accept my offer of temporary lodging so I insist that she register into a shelter. I refuse to have her sleep rough in the condition she is in. We arrive and she is registered and when we are ready to part, I look into her eyes and wonder at how scared she looks. I have seen that same look in the eyes of wounded soldiers who are terrified of what will happen to them and too believing in the fiction of courage at all times. With all the reassurances of the shelter registrar, she gets me to promise her to see her in the morning. I give her the remains of the cab fare from Pavel's. It's not much and it will pay for a decent bit of breakfast in the morning.

"Make sure." She says to me and she reaches up again for her necklace. That necklace seems to settle her and give her enough confidence to let me leave. "Make sure you come. We have to find Tim."

"I will." I say and take a step towards the door. She rushes me and hugs me hard then breaks off and disappears into the shelter without a backward glance.

Back at 221B, when I turn on the phone, there is a stream of messages. Sherlock has another bottle of Petrus in hand and a great many critiques about the fine city of Paris. I scroll to the end and discover my lack of response has disgusted him completely and he has sought solace in the Fragonard Museum. He calls it a little gem of a museum with a claim to fame that the central exhibits are flayed cadavers of all human and animal types. I am certain he will be there for hours of study. Finally – something redeemable about Paris.

It is past midnight and I'm starved so I make a snack and while I wait for cheese to melt on my toast, I check the four bottles underneath the tea towel. I touch each of them in turn as if to ensure they are real and marvel at them once again. I pick up one of them and study the label. So understated almost austere. There is no need to make a colourful splash on a label when everyone knows the real goods are inside. I put it down and then line it up with others so I can study my cache. They don't look like much – just bottles of wine yet worth thousands of pounds each. I put the tea towel over them again and tuck in the edges carefully. I give them a final, comforting pat as if they were small animals being bedded down for the night.

When the cheese on toast is ready, I pour myself a cup of tea. As I eat, I review the various notes I have taken over the day and try to order all the information. I'm too tired and too full of images and ideas to make any progress. I make little headway and by the time I go to bed, I am pleased for the excuse to stop thinking. I have a list of things – more wine search, see Leslie, talk to Lestrade about the dishwasher … The last thought I have before I get to sleep is that I have yet to start looking for Arty.

Tomorrow, I promise myself.

Tomorrow.

X X XXX X xxx xx x x xxx x x xx xx xx x xxx

I wake up to sirens.

They are sirens until they morph into klaxons and then I am conscious enough to realize it's my mobile. I make it stop and then realize I have to commit to speaking. I am hardly awake and have no idea who it is. I look for the time to orient myself … seven thirty. Not so obscene that I have slept in but still early enough for me to righteously annoyed at being awoken too early. I have had five hours sleep, if that.

"What?" I mumble and then clear my throat for a clearer "Hello?"

"Did I wake you?" It's Lestrade.

"What?" I fall back to my pillows and shut my eyes. I want to hang up and go back to sleep but don't. I cover my eyes with the crook of my elbow and try to remember what dark looks like.

"Busy?"

"Yes."

"Mind coming to the morgue?"

"What? Again?" I am awake now. My voice is sharp and commanding. There will be no returning to sleep after this call even if I say no.

"Can you come?"

"Jesus." I say under my breath. "Jesus Christ." And then ask the obvious. "Who is it?"

"I'll send a car around."

Jesus.

Xx xxx xxx x x xx x x xxx xx x xxxx x x xx x

I get to the morgue and when I reach Molly, she blushes when she sees me. I note it but don't make anything of it until I give her a good morning that she stutters to return the greeting. The redness of her cheeks deepens. It occurs to me that she is nervous. I don't understand why and consider the reason. I'm too tired to think beyond the idea that Lestrade knows something. Maybe he's realized I have not been overly generous with details. I start putting together the chain of events related to Arty and Rickie. I put my hand into my pocket and hit my notebook. It occurs to me this will be evidence for the prosecution instead of any help for me. There is a great deal I haven't told him.

Lestrade is standing by the body bag and I wonder if he has ever left this spot so rooted to it he seems.

"Now what?" I look at the body and think about what he is going to show me. It will be an unzipping and then a another reveal. A male with a throat slit and then ridiculous queries about if I recognize the body because the first one was a fuselier. I don't know every fuselier in the UK nor every soldier who served in Afghanistan. I am tired of coming down here to identify bodies and giving him unpaid medical advice. My conscious pricks me because this is the third body and I have yet to even start looking for Arty. A genuine effort on my part and in this regard might stem the flow of bodies.

"Molly." Lestrade lifts his chin and gives her the go ahead to proceed. He stands aside with his hands clasped behind his back.

She unzips the body bag as she has done twice before. I wait for the face to be exposed. The features are slightly obscured by the edge of the bag and I draw closer and look down just as Molly peels back the two sides of the bag.

I don't recognize the profile. I take another step forward and tilt my head so I see the face square on. The features are indistinct and generic and then there is a flash and all at once I recognize the face. I suck in my breath with a gasp that I end with a choked gulp. There is hair fallen across the face and instinctively, I brush away the strands and then let my hand rest on the forehead. The flesh is dead cold. I take my hand back and let my arm fall to my side. A film of tears covers my eyes. I look at Lestrade and know he has been studying me the whole time. I know he knows there was a flash of emotion on my face.

"Who is she?"

My first answer is strained and comes out hoarse. Jesus. I clear my throat and then again. Jesus Christ. "Leslie Burton. How …" I have to take a breath before I can go on. "Did you know to call me?"

Lestrade releases on of his hands from behind his back and offers me an clear evidence bag. "Your card." He says. He waits for me to react.

I don't say anything.

"She's pregnant." Lestrade says.

"I know."

"Yours?"

"What? No!" I look up at Molly and she looks down at her shoes. She is crimson.

"Needed to ask."

All at once, I see her again. I need to see if she has the same gash across her neck; if she died that same horrible way or if there was something different. Molly has exposed more of her face and neck and I can see without touching. Yes. Yes the same gash. Clean and true – ear to ear – she had no chance. No chance at all. With nauseating clarity, I realize that she didn't stay in the shelter. After everything, she still went out. I know it with the fullness of my intellect that she went looking for her Tim and there was no one there to stop her; no one there to keep her safe. I feel my eyes film up and her face blurs. At her neck, the small talisman is still there and I take a closer look. It is bloodied and I rub it clean with my thumb. It's a small cartoon image and I look up at Lestrade.

"Who is she, then?"

"Part of Sherlock's homeless network."

"His what?"

"Listen. Any further with the last body?"

"Not a whole lot of progress, no."

"This." I show him her necklace. "It is the same as his tattoo. She … saw me yesterday. She was looking for him. Tim. He had disappeared. The other body. Is Tim."

I take a last look at her. Her features are so fine and flawless. She was so terribly young and now will never be anything but.

Jesus.

I shake off the shock and step away from the body. "Anything more you need?" I ask

"Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact," Lestrade says it sharply, as if he, too, has not had much sleep.

"What?" I counter his irritation with some of my own.

"You are going to sit your ass down in Interview One and you are going to tell me everything you bloody know."

X x xxx xx x xxx x

Author's note: As ever, thank you for reading. Feel free to bookmark the story to get regular updates. I'd love you to comment on the story so far. Feedback is always welcome and can inspire story elements, new directions and generally getting on with the story. : D


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

People stare as we walk.

Everyone knows who I am. Moreover, everyone can read Lestrade's dark mood. As we approach, they step aside. They avoid eye contact. No one wants to get caught up in whatever has happened. There is a crushing silence that isolates me.

I have said nothing since the morgue, not even to Molly as I left. As I passed her, she looked up at me and the upturn of her face was the only thing keeping the tears back. She sagged and had that "I wish I could help you" expression of helpless empathy she gets when she knows far more than she is allowed to tell. She might have been the one to tell him about the business card and she might have anticipated the reaction even as she read my name with a hesitation and a stammer. Molly must have had to withstand his sharp unanswerable questions and knew that he would have to ask them all over again when I arrived. How long had they waited together for me? How irate would Lestrade have been? Two of his last three serial murders have connections to me and I knew the name of the third yet I have been unforgivably evasive since the start. Molly – dear silent Molly – must have borne the brunt of it. There is no doubt she knew exactly what I was in for since early this morning. Lestrade's expletives would have been graphic accompanied by periodic apologies. Lestrade does not do a good job masking his temper when he thinks he has been played. He knows full well I have been less than forthright. That it is me and not Sherlock who has done this has been all that more provoking.

Lestrade yanks the door and lets it swing open with such force that I blink against the sudden gust of air. He uses his hand to snatch the edge. The arc stops fast and dead. The door is seized and half open. He orders me in with a silent glare. The single table is bare and the four chairs are hard. Interview One is not designed for hospitality. Lestrade follows me and his hard steps echo in the emptiness. His current mood does not make up for any deficits of décor. When he turns to speak, he wrestling with self-restraint. I think he is only just winning.

"You." He points to me and then points to the single chair on my side of the table. "Sit."

I take a seat. He does not. The balance of power is his to own and do as he chooses.

"This." He holds the file upright so half his face is obscured and then slaps it down on the table in front of me. The folder lands with a hard crack. "Steve Westmore. This." He holds up a second file in a similar fashion. "Tim. Timothy? No last name." He pitches down this file right next to the first with the same energy. "This." He gets into the routine and has this one smacked down on the table before he finishes the neat row of three. "Leslie Burton. Each one of them. Throats bloody slit open."

I watch him without interruption. I don't speak because he hasn't asked me a question. My silence further darkens his expression. We hold each others gaze without waver. He takes my blank look as insolence. He grabs the back of a chair and takes hold of the top, then leans forward until his tie swings freely. From my peripheral view, I see his hands clench and the muscles contract until his the ridges of his knuckles are taut. His reaction is reflexive and his grip designed to contain his anger. He moves back and forth and is working hard to bottle it.

I realize that this interview is not a frivolous exercise. Our friendship has been suspended indefinitely. He has fully enveloped his role of DI. There is no doubt in my mind. This is very serious. Lestrade has every right to be furious; I do in fact know better. Still – in this interrogation room, I have a sense of being cornered and the impulse for self-defense surfaces. The soldier part of my brain fixates on the tie moving like a pendulum. My hands itch and I rub them on the rough denim at my knees. I exhale and try not to imagine me reaching out, wrapping his tie around my fist and hauling him across the table into a headlock.

I remind myself why I am here. Then, as if Lestrade is reading my mind, he does as well.

"We are …" He picks he way along with simple words, " … going to go through them. One by one. You." He emphasizes it with another pointed finger. "Are going to tell me. Every bloody thing you know. Do you understand me?"

It is his first question and I know enough to respond – promptly and clearly – with the only possible answer.

"Yes."

He lets my reply settle for a moment and we stare at each other. I blink first. It breaks the spell and perhaps convinces him that I willing to cooperate. Before I can work that into a truce, my phone goes off and as I scramble to get it, Lestrade silently dares me to answer. I have no choice but turn it off without even looking at it. It's another move that stabilizes the mood. The world can end yet he will have my undivided attention.

"Right." He says with derision. He reaches out and spins the first file right side up and opens the front. After a quick scan of the first page, he rocks back and forth a bit on the chair then pulls himself up so he stands straight. He takes the first page with him and studies it. Then he places the single morgue photograph in front of me like he is dealing out a card at a blackjack table. He is no rush and waits until I shift a bit in my seat before he begins.

"Can you identify the person in that picture?"

"Yes. Westie." I say and then revise it. "Steve. Steve Westmore."

"Steve Westmore. You know him how?"

"I served with him in Afghanistan. He was in my unit."

"Knew him well?"

"Not really. I sewed up his chin once."

"How did that happen?"

"Bar fight."

"He start it?"

"Hard to say."

"We will come back to that. When was the last time you saw him?"

I have to give it to Lestrade. He is the rank of Detective Inspector for a reason. He keeps up with this blistering, uninterrupted stream of questions for over two hours. In that time, I get one short break while he takes a phone call. I am allowed to use the loo and when I return, he has set out a paper cup of water for me. He – however - takes no break nor has any water for himself. He resumes with the same unrelenting precision. There is nothing that he does not ask. Every tangent is pursued. Every possibility explored. By the time he has made his way through all three files, he knows absolutely everything I do. He knows about the Homeless Network, all about Arty, Rickie and Leslie and Tim. Knowledge is power and it is also a balm for his anger. The fury has dissipated and the storm nearly worn itself out. He is not yet happy but he is no longer ready to throttle me. In a month's time, we might be able to share a pint at the local pub again. In a year we might look back on this and laugh. But not today.

"Where is this Arty, then?"

"I don't know." I answer honestly and thinking Lestrade fully recovered keep talking. "I've been more worried about getting in the Petrus. We don't have much time."

"Bloody hell!" He says and shoves the chair aside, infuriated. He paces back and forth then stops and towers over me. He points in the general direction of the door. "I have three dead bodies in the morgue each with their necks slit ear to ear. They are dead. Dead! You understand me? And you tell me you are more worried about getting in some bloody wine? You have no idea where he is?"

"No. I don't."

"Why the hell not?"

"I …" The question takes me aback. "I don't know where to start."

"You bloody live with Sherlock Holmes!"

I open my mouth to speak then swallow the retort. I close my mouth and say nothing.

How can I answer that?

Lestrade has a point.

Xxx x xx xxx x x x

"Where to?"

The officer is young enough and new enough not to recognize me. That is – there is every chance he knows my name, reads my blog and recognizes me but has dismissed the chance of it actually being me in his squad car. He is new enough for every face to be a blur. Besides, I suspect he believes he is low enough on the food chain that he is not likely to meet me in person. When Lestrade gives him the order to see that I get home, he does not use my name, nor is he give any impression that I am anything more than a stranger. The lack of Lestrade's parting salutation does not help my status as an unknown and quite possibly secures it. The young officer nods and gives me a once-over but does not register than I am anyone in particular.

"Hello." I say and get in the car. As I sit, the phone in my pocket butts into my hip. Reminded that I have had it turned off, I unpocket the phone and turn it back on.

"Where to?"

"221B Baker Street."

He looks up at me sharply. "I know that address."

Ah. I think to myself. There it is. Something always gives us away. That address is famous. I smile inwardly, a little bit pleased at being recognized. It soothes my ego after the thrashing of Lestrade.

"Yes." I say, realizing he has identified me. "People do tend to know it." The phone screen lights up and as the power comes on, it begins to vibrate as a stream of text messages comes through.

"What?" He looks at me blankly.

I return the expression. "Sorry?"

"221B." He says. "Baker Street?"

"Yes. That's it." I start scrolling down. Sherlock has been trying to contact me. The questions start off gentle but escalate into abuse. Then the phone begins beeping. Voice mail messages. I dial, put in my pass code and listen to the first of five saved messages. The first is from Mrs Hudson. She almost never calls me.

"Right." He bobs his head up and down to confirm it. "Call went out for that address a good while ago."

"What?" I look up and around me as if there is some clue. "What happened?"

"There's …" He starts to tell me and is interrupted by my phone. He stops talking.

"There's what?" I ask and my phone rings again. I end the call with my voice mail and pick up the incoming.

"Hello?"

"Where are you?" Sherlock says without preamble. "Why did you turn off your phone?"

"I'm in a squad car."

"Have you been arrested?"

"No. I was able to talk my way out of it. Listen." I say looking out the window at the grey blur of a morning. "Leslie …" I say her name and all the sadness floods back. "Leslie is dead."

"Who?"

"The Waterloo Bridge Girl." All at once the culmination of the morning's efforts take hold and I am angry. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock! She's dead! She … bloody … worked for you!"

"Never mind that. Mrs Hudson is beside herself."

"What?"

"You need to get back to Baker Street as soon as you can."

"Will someone please tell me what has happened?" I direct the question equally and loudly to both Sherlock and the officer.

Xxx x xx xxx x x x

The street has three separate police cars and two unmarked ones lined up along the curb. Inside, I catch a glimpse of officers tucked here and there busily working. Out of view, I see a flash go off. Someone is taking scene photographs.

"Mrs Hudson." I say when we meet in the front hall. She's seen me come up. Perhaps she's been waiting for me or worse, set adrift by the chaos of officers and activity in her home.

"Did Sherlock call you?" She says and dabs her nose as she approaches me. "I tried calling you but you wouldn't answer."

I hold her by the shoulders at arms length and stoop a bit to look into her face and catch her eyes. I don't ask until she is looking at me. "Are you alright?"

"Oh. Yes." She sniffs again and shivers. "Perfectly fine. Not a hair on my head harmed. I wasn't here when it happened. I came back to this and I called you. Then I called Sherlock. Did Sherlock call you? I didn't know where you'd gone." She blinks and seems to settle the longer I talk to her. Her eyes are bright, sharp. The fear is subsiding. The rambling slows.

"What happened?"

"A break in. I've been ransacked. Entire place in ruin!" She leads me into the parlor as proof. I look around. If anything, she has understated it.

"My god." I say under my breath. Then to her, I ask her again. "You are not hurt?"

"No. I wasn't here." She says with a shiver. "Was down at Tescos and then round to the butchers to get some meat for sandwiches. Ham's on special this week. When I came home." She puts her hands out, one hand a fist around a wad of Kleenex. "This!"

I wander into the center of the room, uprighting a chair and then a table as I pass them. The place looks like a bomb has been detonated.

"Did they take anything?" I turn to her.

"Not anything here worth taking, is there?" She says with brutal honest. "Not a thing at all worth taking."

I have been up woken up early. I've been to the morgue. Identified the brutally murdered body of Leslie Burton. Been through Lestrade's protracted and intricate interrogation. Narrowly avoided being arrested. I feel like my brain has been beaten, bruised picked clean of information. Now this. I can't think. Her words take time settling into the sense part of my cerebral cortex but something about the way she says it stimulates an idea. The sensation builds until it emerges fully formed and blurt out.

I charge out of the room at full tilt and take the stairs up two at a time.

"Where are you going?" Mrs Hudson calls up to me.

"The Petrus!" I call down to her. "The Petrus!"

I open the door to the apartment. The impact of the scene stops me cold. The place is torn apart, ransacked just as Mrs Hudson's is. I race towards the four bottles of Petrus. As I enter the kitchen, I step on the dishtowel that covered them. I look on the counter and see nothing but space where the bottles used to be. I put my palms down on the emptiness and nearly keel over.

Sherlock calls again.

"Hello?"

"John." It's me.

"Sherlock. We've been –"

"Quiet. Battery nearly dead."

In the background, I can hear the wind blowing. He must be outside. On a street somewhere. In the distance, I can discern traffic.

"I'm being followed."

"What?"

"I'm being followed. Don't know who or why. John, you need you to be caref-" He breaks off in mid-sentence.

"Sherlock?" I ask and then look at the phone. The connection is still live. I listen hard. The soft shush of a breeze mixes with far off voices.

"Sherlock?!" I repeat.

I hear a click. Then the phone goes dead.

X x xxx xx x xxx x

Author's note: As ever, thank you for reading. Feel free to bookmark the story to get regular updates. I'd love you to comment on the story so far. Feedback is always welcome and can inspire story elements, new directions and generally getting on with the story. : D


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

"Shit!"

It's an unimaginative start but I follow it up with a spectacular stream of add ons that even a veteran soldier would recognize as coarse expressions of anger. It does nothing to relieve my frustration so I go through the routine again with variations on a theme. I put enough energy into it that when I'm done, I am slightly light-headed and see speckles of light that burn out my slightly blurred vision.

Behind me, there's the softest of sounds. A throat clears. It is delicate. Feminine. I turn.

"Mrs Hudson." I blanch. The tips of my ears burn. "I am so sorry. Did you to hear all that …"

"Never mind, dear." She paws the air in a gesture of disregard. "I have heard almost all of it before now. You'd be surprised. Well, I see they've been here too. Did they take anything?"

"The Petrus." I say gravely.

"No." It comes out in a gasp. She understands immediately and puts her hand to the collar of her dress and fiddles until she has her cross between her thumb and forefinger.

"Yes."

"You best tell the officer in charge, then. He's still here bothering about downstairs."

"Ye-es." I start off fine but slow down in mid-word. "Hmm." I counter and smooth out the answer. Despite my earlier verbal vivisection by Lestrade about withholding information, the idea of telling the police fills me with unexpected reluctance. Since Sherlock and I started on this quest for the wines, there has been a rapid and severe series of events. Some have even had life-ending consequences. Now there is this – the Ransacking of Baker Street and the theft of four acquired bottles – twelve thousand pounds' worth. The question occurs to me how much of this is coincidence, how much is related to Arty and now much to the Petrus. Maybe some or all of it. Maybe nothing. Maybe it is all my imagination making connections where none exist.

I debate the odds in various combinations and then I look at the far wall at the obtuse yellow happy face with bullet holes for eyes and recall Sherlock's warning to be careful. He has been utterly inactive save for the Petrus and now he is being followed. That cannot be an accident. The conclusion lifts the hairs on the back of my head and I get a hinky feeling that Sherlock and I are being watched and our activities monitored.

Mrs Hudson reads my silence well. In her own way, she tries to dissuade me from my current course of action. She tilts her head to the side and sweeps herself sideways to clear my path to the door. "Well?" When I don't respond, she is left to consider my lack of action and arrives at a conclusion that does not please her. A scowl pinches the middle of her forehead and she crosses her arms. "They broke in looking for that bloody wine, didn't they? And now you're not going to say a word?"

"I can't." I say and look beyond her. I can hear footsteps coming upstairs. I hold up my phone. "That was Sherlock. He said be careful."

"Since when does not minding the police when they ask questions considered being careful? Downstairs is a shambles! Don't you think that should count for something? The police are bound to ask."

The footfalls are nearly at the top of the stairs. "Mrs Hudson. I know. I'm terribly sorry. Please? I … I just need to talk to Sherlock first. I can call Lestrade at any time. I need some time to sort everything out." I start riffing on alternatives to telling the police.

"I don't think it's right." Her hands are tucked hard into the crooks of her elbows. She pushes them back and fort until she is settled into her arms are locked and fully crossed. "Not right at all."

"Not right, ma'am?" The officer gets to the landing and steps through the doorway and repeats the tail end of the conversation. "What's not right?" He takes a once round look at the apartment and gets to the only conclusion with no effort. "You've had a right going over as well, I see."

"Yes." I say.

"Anything taken?" He comes further inside the room and takes a place beside me. The whole time he's moving, he's looking at the extent of the damage. It is similar to Mrs Hudson's place – things strewn everywhere. Furniture upturned. Drawers opened. Cushions pulled out. Books hauled down from bookcases and papers tossed aside and away without care or order. Clearly they were intent on their finding what they came for. When I don't answer, he repeats himself and looks me straight in the eye. "Anything taken?"

"I only just got here." I say and hold his gaze.

My blank expression sells it and he nods with understanding. "Nothing jumps out? Your computer is there on the desk. Nice television in the corner. Certainly weren't after electronics. You keep any valuables about? Cash? Jewelry?"

I still avoid Mrs Hudson's gaze. I work in a bit of embarrassment that is easier than I would have wished. "Cash? No. Been a bit low the last … well … for a bit longer that I'd like, if you know what I mean. Not much beyond what's in my pocket." Then I pull back my sleeve and show him my watch. "This is all I have and it's always with me."

There's a bit of quiet and he looks around some more. Then he comes back to me and keeps at it. "Sherlock Holmes lives here?" He might not be so easy to fool after all.

"Yes. He's … abroad at the moment."

"He have anything valuable about?"

I see the violin on the sofa, the case upturned an on the floor. I point it out. "Just the violin, I think. The rest … well … what Sherlock Holmes has of value is what's up here." I tap my temple. "You can't steal that."

"Hmm." He nods in agreement. "Well. You take a good look around and as you put things back together, you might notice something. You call me at this number if you discover anything. Not sure what the focus was. Thorough job. They spent a good deal of time downstairs."

I think to myself that they started downstairs and then when they didn't find what the were looking for, they came up here. The Petrus must have been their only goal. When they found it, they left.

"I'll do that." I give him a nod and he departs. Mrs Hudson stares at me without speaking until the footfalls hit the squeaky stair two from the bottom.

"You should be ashamed." She says. "Utterly ashamed of yourself. Lying to the police like that …"

"I didn't actually lie, Mrs Hudson."

"You didn't tell them the truth, either." She counters. "What would Inspector Lestrade do if he were here? I'm sure he'd have a thing or two to say about it."

I don't answer. A thing or two is an understatement.

Xx x x xxx x xx x xx x x x xxx

Alone, I stand in the middle of the apartment and debate where to start first. Everywhere I look, the intruder - or perhaps I should say that as the plural - seems to have made a particularly aggressive job of pulling things apart. The scope of the destruction is immense; it seems almost vengeful and overwhelms me. Yet, as with all intimidating tasks without obvious beginning, the way to proceed is to simply make a start somewhere and complete a piece and then repeat until the entirety is done. This is how I proceed and eventually, the repetitiveness of bending, picking up and putting back into place create periodic moments of a meditative state. My mind goes into a peaceful quiet where I lapse into thinking of nothing. It provides the relief and mental space for so I can consider what to do next. I get almost to the point where I have a cogent plan then I look to the kitchen and remember the lost Petrus and feel sick all over again. The mental noise returns to a crescendo and crowds out any orderly thought. The wine is gone. We are back down to almost zero from being nearly half done. Sixty thousand pounds in the balance and a week gone. For Mycroft, this is not about the money. Then I think of Sherlock. He said his phone was losing power. He is always losing power and always losing chargers. Why does he have to text and natter incessantly instead of saving it for important matters.

I try to remember the conversation. He didn't say much. He mentioned his battery; that he was being followed. He warned me to be careful. He didn't get to say any more than that. I look around at our apartment. Did he know this was about to happen? I wonder. Was this even close to what he was worried about? I won't know until I talk to him. He didn't get much beyond he was being followed and to be careful. At the end – I am certain those noises were not just the power dying. He stopped talking but there was still a connection. I am sure of it. Then the phone went dead. Or he hung up. Did someone hang up for him? The superficial worry settles into my bones.

I pick up papers and place them on the table and then take them up again and move them to the desk. I move other items from here to there and start thinking of who I know in Paris. Should I go? How do I even start trying to locate him? The consulate? The police? Jesus. Am I going to have to swallow my shattered pride and ask Lestrade for help? I know for certain he is hardly in any mood to give it. If it is possible, he is even more irritated with me now than he normally is with Sherlock. As he said to me earlier this morning, at least I should know better. Then I convince myself against logic that he must be fine. I think there are few people more capable of taking care of themselves than Sherlock. I drop the stack of books I have in my arms on the desk without any order and second-guess my logic. I scroll through a long list of circumstances where he would not be at all fine.

I have lost Sherlock temporarily. But where am I going to look? I wouldn't know the first place to start if I just up and went to Paris. I carry on with this debate to-ing and fro-ing; making plans and then revising them so much that they are no plans at all. I work myself up into such a state that I must simply sit on the edge of my chair and breathe deeply. What is my most pressing issue? The wine or Sherlock? Both but I can do more immediately about the wine than Sherlock. I decide to carry on as I have been – investing a little here and a little there – moving the line forward on multiple fronts simultaneously. It's not perfect but I am one-man army at the moment. I will succeed where I can.

It doesn't look it but I am half way done before I hear a knock a knock at the door. I keep going and call out for them to come in.

I hear the hinges give way and I check over my shoulder long enough for me to register a face and then I look away and pick up the pillow at my feet. All at once, I recognize him. I rise and turn to face him. In the doorway and not yet in stands Rickie.

"Oh, hello," I say and properly stop what I am doing. "Come in."

I mash the Union Jack cushion and drop back into place and when I look up again, he is still at the door.

I nod and say in a voice that is about the tone of convincing a shy pet, "Come in."

He doesn't.

"What happened?" I ask and cross the floor to reach him. "Are you alright?"

"What did you tell the police?" He says it quietly enough that I can't quite distinguish the tone. Rickie has always been good at emotional containment. Except of course, when someone trips a reaction and it explodes.

"I …" I lick my lips and pull my thumbnail across frown lines. "I had an interview with them this morning."

"Did you tell them about Arty?" He is utterly still; his arms hang at his sides. His hands are open in a classic pre-combat pose. I don't come any closer.

He would not ask the question if he didn't know. I have no other option but to come clean. "I … had not choice Why? What happened?" then it occurs to me. "Did they come to see you?"

He waits a long time before he answers. When he finally speaks, a film of tears has risen and subsided from his eyes. He lifts his chin and says simply. "I lost my job."

"What?" The news startles me. I retreat a couple steps. "Rickie. Come in. Sit down." When he still doesn't, I kick it with a final add on that is both gentle and serious. "Want me to make it an order?"

He debates it and eventually reaches the right conclusion. He comes in and I go to close the door after him. When I turn back, he is sitting in Sherlock's place, back straight and not settled back to use the back of the chair.

I puff up the Union Jack again and jam it into its place before I sit. I get no chance for a preamble.

"You pissed them off." He says without preamble. "I don't know what you told them. But they came looking for me. And they were right pissed. It cost me my job."

"Wait. What? How? Slow down." The direction is for me as much as anyone. I shut my eyes and try to make order from what he is saying. I open them and he is still sitting ramrod straight, a simmering stillness. "Who came to see you?"

"A couple of them. One was a detective inspector." He doesn't give the name. "He don't think much of you. What the hell did you do to piss him off?"

"I …" I dip my chin to consider how I can make that a one or two word answer. "Lestrade? There were several points of failure to disclose on my part. We have … differing priorities at the moment. It doesn't help that he has three bodies in the morgue."

He nods and I have the distinct impression this somewhat redeems me. Not by much but enough that he realizes what happened. "You covered for Arty, didn't you."

"I may have … left out a few details. Yes."

"Well. What you left out, I'm pretty sure that inspector knows now. He threatened to arrest me. I can't afford trouble. I need to get my life back." Rickie blinks. "Arty didn't do it, you know."

I put it to him squarely. "I know. And that's with nothing more to go on than knowing him and knowing you. Still, Scotland Yard doesn't have the benefit or privilege of serving with you. They don't know any better. They are driven by evidence. Lestrade is accumulating a circumstantial case against him. I give him credit, though. It's got a lot of merit. That case would be viewed by many as sound and only lacking one or two final elements. If he gets a break in the case … " My voice trails off.

"Yeah." Rickie says. "And one of them breaks is finding Arty himself. Captain, I … I am begging you. Please, can you help me find Arty before the police do? If they arrest him … or try to … it's not going to be good for anyone."

"Least of all Arty." I say.

"Can you help me find him?"

There is one piece of unfinished business between us. I need to know. "Why did you lose your job?"

"They showed up at work. Mrs Fong said she didn't need this kind of trouble and sacked me on the spot after they had gone."

"Mrs Fong?"

"She is the owner. A noodle shop. Outskirts of Chinatown."

"What do you do?"

He takes a deep breath then takes shreds of his personal pride and makes a mantle of it. His chin lifts again. "I wash dishes."

X x xxx xx x xxx x

Author's note: As ever, thank you for reading. Feel free to bookmark the story to get regular updates. I'd love you to comment on the story so far. Feedback is always welcome and can inspire story elements, new directions and generally getting on with the story. : D


End file.
